The Curious Tale of Shug Nesmith
by SmittyGirl
Summary: "Micky, I want you to tell me why I don't sound right and why I don't look right…and why I REALLY don't FEEL right." / "I may have made the teeniest, tiniest miscalculation last night." UPDATED: 02/20/13 - EPILOGUE! It's time to end this one and move on to the next one. I'm not done with Shug, though, so no worries. :) Stay tuned.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: This began as silliness. It has quickly grown serious six mile legs.

* * *

Evenings at 1334 Beachwood Drive could be exciting, while at other times they could be rather dull. Tonight, thankfully, was more relaxing than anything else. Peter and Davy were on post-dinner dish duty, struggling to get at least one more use out of those week-old paper plates. Mike busied himself with the band's budget, while Micky tinkered with his chemistry set in the living room.

Mike had nearly figured out how the group would make it through the month without another late rent payment, but his epiphany was short-lived. His train of thought ran off the tracks when a foul smell reached his nose. He strained out a cough, yanking his hat off his head and putting it over his face. "MICKY!"

As usual, Micky was unfazed. He just waved away the smoke and grinned. "Sorry, Mike. I think I've had a breakthrough!"

By now, Davy and Peter were gagging. Davy threw open the kitchen window; Peter made a break for the balcony. "What are you cooking that smells like death?"

"You remember that book we brought back from Lorelei's place?"

Davy shivered at the mention of the spooky girl. "I'd like to forget her, thank you very much."

"Aww," Micky tutted. "Now, now, Davy. You've got nothing to worry about."

The Englishman shot him a very unimpressed look.

"No vampire uprisings, no werewolves… No tomato juice."

"Promise?"

"Cross my heart."

Davy gave an approving nod. As long as there were no monsters, maybe it was okay.

"Man, I smelled better things on the back half of Aunt Kate's farm!" Mike looked absolutely pained by the scent. "Can't you take that outside?"

"No, I like how it smells out here! So do the seagulls!" It appeared Peter had decided to camp on the balcony deck as a last resort. How he had so quickly made a blanket fort out there was beyond his bandmates.

Satisfied with the results of his experiment, Micky extinguished the flames on the Bunsen burner. "Okay fine, I guess that's enough science for tonight." He capped the test tube containing his stinky brew.

"What is it, Eau de Manure?" Mike had finally relented and placed his hat back on his head.

Micky shrugged. "Nah, just a little something I wanted to try from Lorelei's book."

Mike let out a whistle. "Shoo, man, I dunno about that. You sure that's safe? I mean…It's you, Micky."

"Oh ye of little faith," Micky propped a hip against the table. "It's no big deal anyway."

Mike's reply was a shrug. He gathered up his papers and put them away in the kitchen drawer. "Guess I should tell Peter it's safe to come inside." He observed the blonde boy's blanket fort. "The 'Fort Thorkelson' sign is a nice touch."

As Mike went outside to negotiate with the bassist, Micky slipped a few drops of his experimental solution into Mike's bottle of soda. "One dose of confidence, coming right up."

Sleep was not easy for Micky that night. Mike had spent most of the time flopping around in his bed, restless. He finally settled sometime during the wee hours.

"Next time, I think I'll give you my knockout drops," Micky groused. He pulled his pillow over his head and dozed back off at last. A few hours of sleep were better than nothing.

Those few hours went too fast, as Micky found himself awake again, thanks to Mike. He had rolled over awkwardly and was snoring and mumbling. His voice sounded a bit peculiar to Micky's ears. He reasoned maybe the boy was doing funny voices in his sleep.

Mike had kicked his sheets off most of the way. He took a little stretch, once again squirming onto his back. Something didn't seem quite right to Micky. He squinted his eyes in the darkness, trying to focus on his friend. He finally gave up and turned on the bedside lamp.

"Uh oh."

"Jus' go backkasleep, Micky," Mike slurred out. He didn't even open his eyes. He only barely opened his mouth.

"Mike, you need to get up."

"Ain't daylight yet. Go backkasleep." He buried his face in the pillow and scrunched himself into a ball. It wasn't half a minute before he had sat bolt upright in the bed.

"You okay?" The smile Micky was faking wasn't exactly comforting. "You feel alright?"

Mike's sleepwear of choice had been some worn pajama pants and his old Triumph T-shirt. There was no mistaking he filled them out in an entirely different way now. "Micky," he said, voice breaking, "I want you to tell me why I don't sound right and why I don't look right…and why I REALLY don't FEEL right."

Micky ruffled his curly hair, fidgeting from his perch on his bed. "Uh…well…"

"Micky."

"It's not polite for me to stare, y'know."

"Micky."

"If it helps any, you're cute as a button."

"MICKY!"

The drummer yelped and covered his head with his pillow. It was immediately snatched out of his hands by one very angry, very tall, very horrified dark-haired woman. "What happened to me?" The voice still sounded like Mike, but the pitch was off.

"I may have made the teeniest, tiniest miscalculation last night," Micky squeaked.

Mike raised an eyebrow. "Miscalculation? What 'miscalculation'?" Then he remembered the Eau de Manure… As the realization hit him, his eyes boggled. "You didn't."

"I did. Right in your soda." Micky looked like he would be sick. "This isn't what was supposed to happen, though."

Mike folded his arms across his now quite feminine chest. "Oh, that's fine. What were you goin' for, Brigitte Bardot?"

The bedroom door flew open, with Davy and Peter scrambling over each other wildly to get into the room. Davy caught his breath. "We heard someone scream up here!"

"Are you guys okay?" Peter continued. "It sounded sort of like a lady." His eyes fixed on Mike's face. "You do something different with your hair, Mike?"

Mike sighed, putting his hands on his hips. "It was me. You heard me. May as well get it out in the open."

"It certainly is out in the open," Davy snickered. Mike was quick to cross his arms again and slouch.

"I'm really sorry, man. The book said this would help you." Micky still looked ill. He fetched his robe from the bedpost and handed it to Mike. He was quick to put it on.

"How is turnin' me into a girl in any way helpful?" With the robe, Mike felt a little less exposed, but not any less…weird. "And who said I needed help anyway?"

Micky shrugged. "Well, you're always taking care of us and you hardly ever take any credit for anything, so I thought a little ego boost would make you feel better."

"Son, this is an ego hang-up."

"You weren't supposed to end up like…that!" Micky gestured toward Mike's new shape. "I was thinking more along the lines of James Bond or Matt Helm."

Mike rolled his eyes. "I prefer Michael Nesmith, if ya don't mind." He groaned at the sound of his own voice. "The original version too, not this…retread here."

Davy had taken a seat on the end of Micky's bed. Try as he might, he couldn't help staring at poor Mike. "How closely did you follow the directions? We know you like to go off-script."

Micky's chest sank. "…I might have fudged a couple of things."

A collective groan came from the rest of the group. Mike was crestfallen. Peter instinctively hugged him. "So now what do we do?"

"The book said it's just temporary. Once it wears off, Mike will be back to normal." Micky sounded hopeful, but not terribly confident.

"To the book," Davy said as he headed to the stairs.

* * *

NOTES: Yes, I know it's a tired premise, but it's fun to play around with this kinda stuff.

Who wants to play "Spot the Episode Reference" while reading along? :D

STAY TUNED FOR PART TWO


	2. Chapter 2

Downstairs in the kitchen, the boys—and sudden girl—all crowded around Davy as he read from the old spell book.

"It says this potion lasts from one full moon to the next." He narrowed his eyes as he scanned the page. "No wonder you ended up turning Mike into a girl—It looks like a third of this recipe is missing."

"The full moon thing should still be good, right?" Mike was clinging onto hope.

Peter consulted the calendar. He shook his head. "If so, you have to wait till next month."

"Next month?!" Mike's knees buckled. Micky caught him under both arms. "What am I supposed to do till then?"

"Heels would look nice," Davy snickered.

Micky struggled to stand Mike upright again. "C'mon, big fella, up you go." He looped an arm over his shoulder and walked him to the couch. "I don't know what we'll do about this if it doesn't clear up before our next gig."

"It's in two nights," Mike said flatly. His face belied his emotions—He looked panicked. "We have a show at Pop's in two nights." He fell onto his side, right into a pile of cushions. "I can't be seen like this."

Micky scoffed and piled onto the couch next to his sideways friend. "Why not? You still look the same." Mike glared at him through longer eyelashes. "Well, maybe minus the sideburns and plus the hips."

Mike pushed himself upright. He looked less in a panic and more worried than anything. "You guys go on without me. You've had to before, so this won't be any different."

"Do you know how many gigs we've got planned over the next month?" Davy retrieved Mike's notepad from the kitchen drawer and began flipping through it wildly. "We can't leave you out for that many shows. We won't!"

"Everyone is expecting four guys to get up there and sing, not three guys and some homely chick." Mike propped his elbows on his knees, resting his head in his hands. The change was really hitting home now. His jaw was narrower, his nose smaller and his sideburns were missing. He just groaned.

Davy returned the notepad to the drawer and paced the kitchen a few times. That was typical Mike—not wanting to hold them back, but fully oblivious of his importance to his friends. A wicked look crept onto the younger boy's face as he sprinted to their bandstand in front of the bay window. He grabbed Mike's Gretsch. "Maybe he can't play anymore while he's like that."

Mike's ears perked up.

"Shame, really," Davy went on. He turned and suddenly bumped right into Mike's chest.

"Gimme that guitar." He took the instrument from Davy's hands and put it on. Hands in place, he took a deep breath and tried a couple of chords. No problems. It was like an out of body experience, however, seeing how his hands were now smaller, his fingers daintier. He wasn't about to let that stop him. He cracked his knuckles and flew into a solid flamenco solo. When he had finished, the other boys were applauding.

That's when he knew he'd been had. "You play dirty, you know that?"

"I don't see any reason why you should stay home and mope," Davy laughed.

"You're just fine!" Micky added. "No excuses."

Peter raised his hand. Micky acknowledged him with a nod. "How do we explain Mike being a girl now?"

The happy mood faded just as quickly as it had come into being. Mike resorted to plucking out random melodies on his guitar. Whether he played the gig or not, he would have to adjust to those new hands.

"Mike, get dressed."

"Micky, it's too early."

"Really, man, go get dressed." He was insistent. "Maybe we can hide this whole…girl thing till it wears off."

Mike leaned back, one eyebrow raised, lips pursed.

"Just do it. Please?"

The Texan rolled his eyes and took off his guitar. "Alright, alright, I'll go get dressed." He tromped up the staircase to the bedroom.

"You think anyone will notice?" Davy was back at the kitchen table with the spell book. "That Texas swagger doesn't exactly look the same on a six-foot girl."

"If we can camouflage him some way, we might not have anything to worry about." Micky headed for the larger table and his chemistry set. "In the meantime, I'd better see if I can undo this."

Peter stepped between Micky and the table. He put both hands on Micky's chest. "I'm afraid I can't let you do that."

"You don't want me to turn Mike back to normal?"

"It's not that, it's just that…" He stammered nervously, tugging at one of his pajama cuffs. "You might turn him into a frog or a lizard or a horse…"

Micky growled beneath his breath. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, Pete." He retreated to the kitchen, pulling a chair up beside Davy.

"He's got a point. You didn't use the right recipe in the first place." Davy flipped through several pages of text and illustrations. "It's not like there's a reversal potion in here. At least, I haven't found one yet."

Their conversation was halted by the sound of boots on the metal staircase. Three sets of eyes followed Mike down the stairs and into the living room. He stopped, hat in hand, and wearing what would have been his usual wardrobe fare—a black shirt and striped pants.

…Except in his current state, the pants were hip huggers and the shirt followed every curve. Mike caught a glimpse of himself in the full length mirror near the door. "Well, clearly that was a bad idea," he sighed. He put his hands around his waist, then brought them out from his body in an attempt at a measurement. "That ain't natural."

"We can't hide this," Micky sighed.

"We can't hide this." Davy confirmed it. He went back to his research, but found himself distracted. "Mike, what are you doing?"

Mike was still in front of the mirror. It was the first real look he'd had of himself since waking up entirely different. "Maybe I could wear sweaters?"

"Your sweaters are fitted too," Micky pointed out. "Looks like we don't have much of a choice, man. You're too much of a girl right now."

Mike resumed slouching.

"WAIT!" Micky leapt from his chair, toppling it into the floor. Davy yelped in terror, while Peter fell over and Mike nearly had a heart attack. "I have an idea!"

"Please let it be better than your last one," Mike sighed.

"If we have to present Mike as a girl, what we need is a plan. I have to make a phone call."


	3. Chapter 3

Author's note: WHAT HAVE I DONE

* * *

An hour later, a statuesque blonde practically did a pirouette through the front door of the beach house. She greeted Micky with a pat on the head. "Oh, my sweet boys… How are you?"

"Hi, April." Micky was practically breathless with infatuation. He still had a crush on that laundry girl. Peter and Davy remained enchanted as well. Consumed by embarrassment, Mike couldn't find a hiding place soon enough.

Miss Conquest tiptoed through the living room, pulling a suitcase behind her. "When I got your call, Micky, I had to hurry over. My heart simply couldn't take it." She left the luggage in the middle of the floor and began nosing around the beach house. "Where is the poor dear?"

Davy sidled up to Micky and leaned into his ear. "Did you tell her about Mike?"

"Not exactly."

April looked confused. "You did tell her I was coming, didn't you?" She spied two extra bodies seated along the far wall. They were draped under a blanket. She gave the blanket a yank, revealing Mr. Schneider…and one baffled looking girl.

April tsked at Mike sadly. "Poor thing, so shy." She took him by the wrist and pulled him out of the chair and to his feet. "I know it's scary out here in the city…and when Micky told me how the airline lost your luggage…"

Mike made a grab for the pullstring on Mr. Schneider's chest.

"Sometimes the best hiding place is in plain sight," the dummy chattered, "unless one cannot hold their breath."

"Thanks a lot," Mike hissed.

Mike was made to stand in the middle of the living room, as April circled, examining him. He could feel his ears burning. The blonde woman cupped his face in her hand. She turned his head left and right.

"Darling, we could do so much with those cheekbones," she mused. "Oh, and your hair!" She ran her fingers through Mike's wavy mop, pulling it out of his eyes. "You shouldn't hide your face so much."

Mike was quick to straighten his hair back out. "No, it's fine like I've got it."

April skipped over to her suitcase and threw it open. She unfurled a few skirts and blouses and happily held them up to Mike. "You're going to look precious!"

"Eeeeee!" A perfect falsetto chorus filled the pad. The other boys had arranged themselves across from Mike and April so they could enjoy the show. Mike wondered if it was too much to ask the earth to open up and swallow him whole.

"Think you can help her, April?" Micky made sad faces at the Texan. "Look at her—Forced to wear her brother's clothes!"

"And she's afraid to leave the house," Davy added.

Peter wasn't exactly clued into the act. "Mike has a brother?" Davy punched him in the arm.

"I didn't even think to ask your name, sweetie," April lamented.

Mike's eyes boggled. He had given this no thought. If the shared expression on his band mates' faces were any indication, they had not either.

Micky tripped over his own tongue. "Uh…she… She's… Oh, shhhooo—"

"SUGAR!" Davy shouted.

Mike whimpered. "Sugar?" This could not be happening.

"That's right! How could I forget?" Micky sighed, relieved. "Sugar here is Mike's twin." He noticed the absolutely pained look on Mike's face. He couldn't help himself. "Her friends call her Shug for short."

"Oh, how darling!" April squealed and bounced on her heels. "So perfectly Southern. You're adorable, Shug!" She grabbed Mike in a hug. Mike glared at Micky and Davy. If looks could kill…

"Sugar? REALLY?" he mouthed.

Being the concerned friend she was, April spent the next hour chasing Mike through the pad, arguing with him over the finer points of "being a lady" and shaking dresses at him. It seemed like every minute, Mike was running from one bedroom to another, then to the bathroom, to the closet, then back to one of the bedrooms, each time sporting a different outfit. April was close behind every time.

"Shug? Shug-sweetie! We need to talk about underpinnings!"

"Under my pinnin's is fine!"

"You can't wear those boots with that skirt!"

"WATCH ME."

"This is quite some sport, innit?" Davy mused through a mouthful of popcorn. He held the bowl toward Micky.

"I didn't know he could move that fast in heels." Micky passed the popcorn bowl to Peter. "I wonder if he'll sit still for makeup?"

"Those colors are all wrong for him. She's got him as a spring; he's definitely an autumn." As Peter took the bowl, he noticed they were out of popcorn.

The chase ended at last, with Miss Conquest standing outside of the downstairs bedroom. The pad looked like it had just endured a hurricane of ladies' clothes. "Sugar, darling, I know you're not used to this—"

"Tell me about it!"

"But you have to come out of there, okay?" She tapped at the door, then cracked it open. "Come on, dear! Your friends are waiting!" April reached into the room and managed to seize an arm, dragging Mike into the open.

He begrudgingly trailed behind April as she held firm to his arm. April had somehow managed to get him into a green off-the-shoulder number, complete with crinolines under the skirt. To top it all off, she had made him up and pulled his hair out of his face with a sparkly barrette. He didn't even look the same, save for the grumpy expression on his face. That was still 100 percent Mike.

April clapped her hands and gave the new girl's shoulder a hug. "She cleans up beautifully, doesn't she?"

Micky whistled, impressed. Peter did his gentlemanly best and wasted no time getting to his feet. Davy smiled at Mike and gave him an eyebrow waggle. Mike just groaned.

"She looks like she's ready for prom, April!" Micky said. He sidled up to Mike's other side and offered an elbow. Mike slapped it away.

"Don't do that."

"I'm so glad I could help you, Shug dear," April beamed. "And I understand how hard it is for tall girls like us to find nice things." She gingerly straightened out a pleat on Mike's skirt. "You keep these, okay? That way you'll have something really nice to take back to Texas. Personally, I would mail them ahead before leaving." She hugged the girl again, giving her a peck on the cheek. "You tell that sweet brother of yours I said hi." Mike's face went pink. He put a hand where April had kissed him.

She reached over and patted Micky's chin. "You keep an eye on her. Call me if there's anything else I can do."

Micky could only nod his head like a loon. "Yeahyeahyeahyeahyeah."

Filled with the spirit of goodwill and giving, April practically floated to the door. "Take care of her, my darling boys!"

As the door closed, Mike let go a breath he had forgotten he was even holding. He kicked off the heels April had left him and hurried up the stairs to the bedroom he shared with Micky.

Micky ran behind the flurry of green satin and tulle. "Where are you going?"

"Mick, I'm pretty sure I've been emasculated enough for one day. I'd like some PANTS." He slammed the door in Micky's face.

"Mickyyyy!"

Micky peered over the upstairs railing. "What is it, Pete?" The boy looked pained, face flushed.

"There are lady things all over the kitchen and in mine and Davy's room."

"Just pick them up and move them."

"But… but…but…"

Micky chose to slide down the banister. He skillfully skipped the last three steps, landing perfectly on his feet. "Fine, I'll take care of it."

* * *

Dearest darling Mike Muse: I AM SO SORRY

BUT DAMN YOU ARE PRETTY

Oh and April. April, April, APRIL. I don't know why I like her so much, but I do.


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note: Still silly. Mike, you're a real trooper, taking one for the team.

* * *

The events of the morning behind them, and after a quick clothing change for Mike, the group set up for rehearsals. With a show in two nights, they had to stay on their toes. They could worry about Mike's situation later. He could still play, which was the important thing.

"Run-through time," he said, tuning the last couple of strings on the Gretsch. "Let's give 'Sunny Girlfriend' a try." Not even waiting for comments from the others, he launched into the opening chords.

"Mike," Micky called from behind his drums. "Mike?"

The guitarist was so focused on landing his fingers on the right frets, he didn't even hear his band mate. Davy stuffed a maraca under his arm and grabbed hold of one of the tuning keys, twisting it backwards. It sounded terrible.

"Hey!" Mike gathered up the "Blonde Beauty", holding it close. He fiddled with the strings again, retuning it. "The whole middle part of the guitar just…fell out…"

"Best way to get your attention," the little man said with a sneer.

Mike looked hurt. "Are we gonna rehearse or are you gonna humiliate me some more?" He propped his rear against an amp and worked with the 12-string.

"Considering your current state," Micky sighed heavily, "there are songs you're not going to be able to sing."

"I can sing 'em just fine."

"Not as a girl, you can't."

Mike's eyebrows snapped together, then he took a deep breath and removed his guitar. He gently propped it against the amp and held a finger aloft toward the rest of the band. From there, he stepped onto the balcony…and let out an ear-splitting shriek.

He calmly re-entered the house, and took his place back at the band stand. Davy patted him on the back. "There, there."

"We're not picking on you, Mike; it's just that you'd be singing from the wrong point of view." Micky was careful in his explanation. "It's not like we can change all the pronouns and have everything still sound right."

"I didn't even think about that." Mike perched on the amplifier again. He pinched the bridge of his nose, mentally running through their entire setlist and then some. "Okay… Here's what we do. Peter, you take my vocals on that first one, okay? You've got the closest range." Peter nodded. "Micky, you take 'Girl I Knew Somewhere'. We know your key." He gave the drummer a wink. Micky smiled and saluted. "Davy, you've got plenty enough to sing already, so I may hand the introductions and announcements over to you."

Davy cocked his head sideways, curious. "What are you going to do? Anything?"

Mike shrugged. "I can still play. And I've still got enough of my old range left for harmonies, so things should be groovy." He didn't sound entirely sure of himself, but he still had to lead, darnit.

"You could always yodel!" Peter suggested happily.

Mike pointed an accusing finger at the blonde. "That's shower-only singin' an' you KNOW it, Shotgun."

Rehashing their setlist was abruptly put on hold by a heavy pounding at the door.

"OPEN UP, YOU WEIRDOS! I KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE!"

One shared look among friends, followed by one shared word: "Babbitt."

"WHAT HAVE I TOLD YOU ABOUT THE NOISE?"

"Amazing," Micky snarled. "He complains about the noise when he's the one who makes the most of it."

Davy set down his maracas and went to the door. "Looks like it's my turn." He opened the tiny peep door, which was of no use to him since he wasn't tall enough to even see out of it. He didn't need to as it was. Babbitt's face was stuffed against the bars. Davy was certain he could feel the landlord's breath over the top of his head. He reluctantly opened the door.

Babbitt, an unhappy man in his 50s, stormed into the house. "Alright—What's with the screaming?"

The four friends looked at each other, each stuttering out a weak excuse. To Babbitt's ears, it was simply more useless noise.

"That's ENOUGH!"

Sudden quiet again.

"I have enough trouble keeping tenants around here without you numbskulls screaming bloody murder," he grumped. "I can put up with the music, but shrieking, howling, barking, calling for pigs—" He stopped mid-way and did a double-take at Mike. "Who's that?"

"No one!" Micky took the sheet he used to cover his drums and threw it over Mike's head. "No one at all. We'll keep the noise down. Bye!"

Babbit stormed to the bandstand and pulled the sheet off of the guitarist. He peered very carefully at his face, his stare cold and icy. "You look kinda like Nizbaum—"

"Nesmith."

The landlord did something unusual: He smiled. "Who is this? Nishwash got a cousin I don't know about?"

"NESMITH."

"That's his sister, Shug!" Peter offered, smiling. He finally got it!

"Sister, eh?" His tone had softened completely. "Was that you I heard earlier, dear?"

Mike felt a little on the queasy side. He faked his best smile and fluttered his eyelashes. "Oh, heavens, yes. I got spooked."

Babbitt took Mike's hand in his and patted it. "Spooked? Whatever for?"

"Uh, um….A mouse! I saw a mouse." He pointed at the flooring near the deck. "Little gray feller, just skitterin' along—eep-eep-eep—an' land-uh-goshun, I just went all to pieces." He wiggled the fingers of his free hand, demonstrating the "mouse's" travels through the pad. He made sure to exaggerate his Texas accent. "He skeered me so much, I must've overreacted." Mike fanned at his face for dramatic effect. "I am so sorry, Mr. Bennett."

"Babbitt."

"Don't take it out on these sweet city boys," Mike went on, really going for his role as a panicked damsel. "It's not their fault. I'll do my best not t'git all riled up again while I'm here." He tilted his head just enough for his hair to fall entirely over his left eye. He added a pout for good measure.

The landlord's cheeks were getting redder by the minute. "Well, as much trouble as they are sometimes…" He looked at the other three boys. "I guess they're not that bad. I'll have that mouse problem taken care of for you, sweetie. Don't you worry."

"The kitchen sink doesn't drain either," Mike added.

"I'll see what I can do." Babbitt patted Mike's hands, then cheerfully went to the door. "You kids stay out of trouble with this nice little lady around. I don't want to have to come back up here!"

Once the door had closed, Mike pretty much collapsed in a heap on the floor. "UGH."

Micky stood and applauded. "That, my good ma—WOman, was AMAZING. Emmy consideration!"

Mike sat in the floor, gagging. "I feel disgusting."

Davy crouched beside him. "What was that look you gave him? That was priceless!"

"That? Oh, that's the look I used to give Aunt Kate back when I was a kid and I wanted my way. She always hated that look." He stuck out his lip in a perfect pout and looked at Davy, who felt his own face get a bit warm.

"That's powerful stuff, that is," he declared, looking the opposite direction. He flailed his hands at Mike. "Put that face away, man!"

"Funny thing is, it never worked on Aunt Kate."

* * *

Yes, Mike utilized an old stereotype cliche, but it was to save everyone else's bacon. You KNOW Babbitt wants to kick those boys out. Mike's probably going to have the booboo jeebies for the next six months.

Babbitt did have that brief crush on Micky as Mrs. Arcadian, so now Micky and Mike can commiserate. Here boys, have some ice cream and a blankie while I get to work on part six. *cuddles the wondertwins*


	5. Chapter 5

Author's Note: INITIATE SPARKLY. It's hard to keep to an outline. There have been rewrites. There may be more.

* * *

A day and a half of rehearsals, plus a half day of goofing off, and the Monkees were ready to face the crowd at Pop's on Friday night. They arrived early in the afternoon for setup.

As usual, Mike put himself on duty as guitar tech, checking everything to be sure it was in tune. So far, so good. Meanwhile, Micky was testing out his drum arrangement.

"Hey, Peter, could you grab that amp for me please?" Mike untangled what seemed like miles of cord till Peter hoisted one of the Voxes onto the stage. Mike took it from there, settling it into place on his side of the stage.

An older voice behind Peter tutted in disapproval. "You should be ashamed of yourself, young man. Letting that lady lift that heavy thing all by herself?"

"Oh no, Pop, it's okay—"

"In my day, a real gentleman would help a lady."

Peter looked at Mike in the most pleading way possible. Help?

Mike cleared his throat. Time for Shug to make another appearance. "It's okay, he didn't know any better." He hopped down from the stage, dusting off his jeans. "Back home, a gal's gotta be independent, so I don't worry about chivalry too much." He smiled at Pop Harper, hoping the excuse would suffice. It was bad enough he was out in public like this; he didn't need to add insult to injury under the guise of "chivalry".

"Don't you let these boys take advantage of you," the old man warned. "You look like a sweet kid." He patted Mike on the cheek. Pop turned and gave an icy glare to Peter. "You. You help this young lady."

That pleading look on Peter's face worsened. Mike could only shrug. "I tried."

"I guess I need the chivalry lessons anyway," Peter sighed. He fetched the remaining amplifiers, while Mike continued tuning things up.

"I really hope I don't regret this."

At last, set-up was complete and everything was ready for the show. The group slipped backstage to the tiny dressing room to change into their stage outfits. Mike was last to file in; Micky quickly ushered him back out.

"Hey, now wait a minute!" Mike protested. "Wait just a minute!" He dug his boot heels into the linoleum, leaving skids on the floor.

"Sorry, Mike. New rules."

"What new rules? Did I miss something?" He looked genuinely hurt.

"You're a girl right now, yeah?"

"Well…yeah."

"We're three guys, right?"

"Obviously."

"We can NOT have a girl changing clothes in here with us." Micky's whispers were never exactly silent. He had some real intensity in this one too. "It's just not done."

"Oh, come on, Micky. How long have you known me?"

"As a guy? Four years. As a girl? Three days." He narrowed his eyes into little slits. "It makes a difference, Mike."

Mike wasn't sure exactly when the "new rules" had gone into effect, especially without anyone actively _telling_ him. Looking back, it must have been right after the change. If he happened to change clothes in the same room as anyone else, they would leave. If he opted to sleep wearing a T-shirt, any of the other guys insisted he wear a robe. One accidental, forgetful moment had resulted in the "absolutely no one shirtless" rule, too. Mike slumped to the floor outside the door.

"I'll just wait here, then."

Micky knelt beside him and patted him on the knee. "C'mon, cheer up, huh? We're trying to show you a little respect, all things considered." He lifted Mike's hair out of his eyes. "Quit hiding under there, Nez." That finally got a snicker out of the girl. "Are we cool?"

Mike smiled. "We're cool."

"We'll try to be quick so you don't have to hang out here too long." The drummer disappeared into the dressing room again.

Half a minute later, two sets of arms shoved Davy out the door. He had only halfway gotten his red shirt over his head. "Fellas? Hey, fellas! What's going on?"

Mike finished yanking the shirt down over Davy's shoulders. "That better, Tiny?"

"Yeah…" He seemed utterly befuddled to even be out there. "What just happened?"

"I don't—"

Suddenly, Peter came careening out the door. His shirt was on backwards. He looked at his friends rather sheepishly. "Um…Hi."

Lastly, Micky re-emerged, shirt halfway untucked and hair an absolute mess. He seized Mike by the arm and halfway swung him into the dressing room. "All yours!"

"What in the world—"

"Streamlining!" Micky threw Mike's extra pants and shirt in right after him.

The quartet lined up at the side of the stage, ready to make their entrance. As Pop introduced them, Micky was quick to snatch Mike's knit hat off his head.

"Hey! What's the big idea?"

"You can't wear the hat, Mike."

He scrunched his nose at the drummer. "But it's my lucky hat. I always wear it!"

"Not as Shug, you're not." Micky threw the hat into the back of Mike's amp, where it landed amid some extra wires. "It doesn't look right."

Mike let out a noise that was half sigh, half growl. "How am I gonna keep my hair out of my eyes?"

Micky pointed beyond Mike to Peter, who held a lone sparkly barrette aloft.

Michael was not plussed. "You have got to be kidding me."

"Mr. Tork, administer sparkly," Micky directed, faux British accent in full effect.

"Yes sir! Right away, sir!" Peter slid Mike's hair out of his eyes just enough and –click- in went the barrette. "Sparkly deployed, sir!" He clicked his heels and saluted.

Micky waved at him. "At ease, soldier."

Their introduction came and they filed onto the stage, waving and smiling as they always did. The crowd at Pop's was usually a good one, so they didn't have any worries. Everyone was in their place and Mike led them into the first number with a simple nod and dip of his guitar.

The applause was polite, but there was rather a small rumble among the crowd. It had been some time since Mike had felt quite that self-conscious. He wondered if anyone would notice if he took a dive behind the drums.

…Or maybe hid inside his guitar case the rest of the night.

Come to think of it, the Monkeemobile had a nice trunk he was sure he could fold himself into…

"Hello, everyone!" Davy began his announcement duties early. "You know us, we're the Monkees… I suppose you're wondering who our lady friend is on guitar." He looked at Mike, who was motioning his hand across his neck and shaking his head. Davy threw his arms up a moment and shrugged. He had already opened this can of worms, so it was too late to close it now.

Micky was quick to step in. "You all know Mike, right?" There were a few cheers from the regulars in the crowd. "He had to go out of town on some family business."

"Awww…" The crowd seemed to be playing along nicely tonight.

"I know, right? But because he didn't want to leave us in a bind, he sent his sister to fill in for him in the meantime." Micky pointed at Mike, then began a drumroll. "Miss Shug Nesmith on lead, ladies and gentlemen!" One good, solid cheer from the crowd and Micky ended his flourish with a cymbal crash.

Mike could have died right there. Professional that he was, however, he politely curtsied and waved. He would simply have to wait till after the show to kill Micky and Davy.

* * *

Really, there's no way to hide that they have an adorable girl in the group now, so may as well get it out in the open, right? XD Mike, you have to adjust.


	6. Chapter 6

Author's Note: I keep finding new and amusing ways to abuse poor Mike.

* * *

It was after midnight when the group got home. Micky had taken over driving duties. Mike's nerves had been wound so tight that after the show, once he sat down for a little break in the car, he accidentally dozed off. It took Micky and Davy hoisting him onto Peter's back to get him inside. Rather than try to carry him upstairs, Peter put him on the couch and tucked him in.

"Aww, doesn't he look cute when he's asleep? Like a little kid." He ran to his bedroom and came back with a stuffed bunny. He put it under Mike's chin.

"What is that for?" Davy asked, pointing at the worn out plush.

Peter was very matter-of-fact. "He's had a rough couple days. I thought it might help."

The sleeping girl stretched and curled an arm around the bunny plush. "Thanks, Ma."

Peter beamed. "See?"

"It's best to let sleeping Mikes lie." Micky wheeled in his drum kit. "Help me get this stuff inside so we can get back to that book."

Davy sighed, exasperated. "Can't it wait till tomorrow morning?" He followed the drummer back out to the car.

"The sooner we get him back to normal, the better." Micky piled three cases into Davy's arms—Mike's guitar, plus Peter's bass and banjo. He grabbed two of the amps himself. "I've never had anything backfire so badly." He paused, shame evident in his voice. "I feel terrible."

"You did jinx that little potion of yours good and proper," Davy scolded.

"I know," Micky solemnly nodded. "I'm usually really good with this kinda stuff." He set the amps on the bandstand. "Then we end up with girl Mike." He gestured at the couch, noting that now two figures were curled up on it. "Peter, what are you doing?"

Mike had thrown an arm across Peter's chest and had his head on Peter's shoulder. "I just sat down for a minute! Then he rolled over."

"Z'Aunt Kate bringin' pie? Ain't Krimmus wivvout pie…" Mike snorted and sighed, then was quiet again.

"What do I do?"

Davy threw an extra cushion at Peter's face. "You're stuck, man. Sorry."

It took all Micky had not to laugh out loud. "When he starts talking in his sleep, you may as well give up. Get comfortable." He went with Davy back out to the car one last time.

Peter sighed and rested his head on the spare cushion. He patted Mike on the head with his free hand. "Sweet dreams?"

"Tell Ma I din't eat alltha peach purserves…"

"It's going to be a long night."

* * *

"Good morning, sunshine!" Micky cheered, hovering over Mike. "Time to wake up, face the day and here—Drink this."

Mike rubbed at his eyes and sat up, scratching his head. He knocked the sparkly barrette from his hair in the process. He gaped at it as it sat in his lap, twinkling and being…fabulous. "So last night really did happen, huh?"

Micky nodded.

"And I'm still a girl." As he shifted on the couch, he realized he was sharing that scrap of real estate with Peter, who was still sound asleep. "What's Pete doin' here?"

"He kept you company all night." Micky shoved a glass into Mike's hands. "Drink this."

"Hold it a minute. What is this stuff?" Mike studied the solution in the glass. It was a thick, dark green concoction that had all the charm and consistency of mud. It bubbled slightly. He gave it a sniff and instantly regretted it. "Smells like burning socks."

"Oh, that's not the potion," Davy called from the kitchen. "We may have tried to dry our socks in the toaster oven last night."

Mike pulled a horrified face.

"It wasn't exactly our finest moment."

"Enough about us—DRINK already!" Micky was relentless.

"Okay, okay, okay, I'll drink it!" Mike held his nose. "Salud!" And down the hatch it went.

Micky crouched over and stared at him, eyes locked on his face. "Well?"

"Well what? It was like drinking paint. Bleah." Mike hiccupped…and smoke blew out of his nose. "Ow."

Micky stood up straight again, turning to face Davy. "No dice, man."

"We'll keep trying." Davy continued flipping through that troublesome old spell book. "There has to be something that works."

Mike felt like he had swallowed a fiery billiard ball. He pounded at his chest, mindful of where he put his fist. "Guys, I don't feel so good." His stomach roiled, causing him to double over.

"Maybe you drank it too fast?"

It was then that Mike burped and blew flames. He screamed, throwing the glass to the floor. Mike's high-pitched yelp awoke Peter, who found himself tangled up in the cast-off blanket and fell to the floor.

Micky rushed to the table, taking the book from his friend's hands. "Davy, was that a listed side effect?"

Another burp mixed with a hiccup. Smoke and flames. Mike clutched at his stomach and groaned. "What did you give me?!"

Peter popped up from the floor, throwing the blanket and cushions aside. "Oh my God, Mike's on fire! MIKE IS ON FIRE!"

Micky ran to the sink and grabbed the mop bucket from underneath it. "Hang in there, Mike!" He fumbled with the faucet till he finally had about half a bucket of water handy.

Peter scrambled to his feet, running for the fire extinguisher on the wall. He pulled the pin and gave the trigger a squeeze, releasing confetti all over the room. He tossed it aside with a snarl. "Why don't we have a real plan for things like this?"

Mike resorted to holding in his hiccuburps, which resulted in smoke trailing out of his nose again. He couldn't seem to stop.

Micky intended to run to Mike's aid with the bucket of water. His movements were not calculated very well; he managed to get the bucket caught on the faucet and when he tried to run with it, his feet flew out from under him. As he crashed onto his tailbone, the bucket dislodged itself from the sink and left him with a face and lap full of cold water. The boy looked heartbroken. "Maybe I try too hard?"

Davy calmly made his way to his ailing friend and handed him a glass filled with white liquid. "Here."

Mike gave him a pained look. "Do I want to drink this?" Hiccuburp. Fire.

A wink and a smile. "It's safe. It's milk."

Mike seized the glass with both hands and quickly downed it. The hiccups died and one last thick smoke plume flew out of his mouth; his stomach finally cooled. "Thanks, Tiny." As his stomach and nerves settled, he observed that Micky had still not dismantled his chemistry set. In fact, the table in the living room area seemed even messier than before. "I thought you were gonna clean that up."

"Nope." Micky's answer was firm. He mopped at the floor with a dishrag, though his efforts seemed very much in vain. "I have to get you back to normal first."

"It's just a month," Mike reasoned. "I can survive that long. It's strange, yeah, but—"

"What if it's not just a month?" Micky ceased his water-logged duties. He looked rather…grim.

In that moment, the beach house was possibly at its quietest since the four boys had moved in. Mike weakly attempted to break the awkward mood, but not much more than a squeak came out of his mouth.

The drummer stood, face pale. "Mike, I messed up. Big time." As Micky picked at the buttons on his shirt, Mike realized that all of them were still dressed as they were the previous night. Judging by the dark circles under their eyes, Micky and Davy had not even slept. They had stayed up to study that accursed book. It made his heart ache.

"It'll be okay, Micky. Don't worry about it. It'll all work out." He retrieved both drinking glasses from the floor and put them in the sink. He put an arm over the drummer's shoulder and gave him a reassuring squeeze. "It always works out, right?"

Micky gave his friend a quick once-over. He forced his eyes not to linger on anything specific for too long. "Mike, I turned you into a chick!"

"You were almost a werewolf one time, right?" Mike countered. He playfully elbowed the boy in the ribs. "And you've had to wear a dress before too, Mrs. Arcadian."

"This is way different than a rag, a bone and a hank of hair," Micky whined. Davy's ears perked up.

"Rag and a bone and a what?" He had fallen asleep with his face in the spell book.

Micky patted him on the head. "Go back to sleep, Davy." The Englishman nodded and put his head back down on the table.

Mike propped a hip against the kitchen counter. "Really, man, it's okay. I'm not worried."

"I'm still gonna do something about it." Micky wrung the dishrag into the sink and moved the mop bucket back into its proper home. "We've still got a lot left to go through in that book."

"I think you need some rest." Mike looked at Davy, whose face was squished against the book's parchment pages. "Both of you."

"But Mike—"

"I'm okay!" His voice was as stern as he could make it, considering. "I'm not dyin' or anythin' like that. You an' Tiny getcha some sleep."

"But—"

"GIT!"

Davy sat up, snorting. "Who you callin' a git?"

Micky tapped him on the arm and threw a thumb back at Mike. "Shug says it's naptime."

"What Shug says, goes then, dunnit?" he laughed, rubbing at his eyes. He stumbled into the downstairs bedroom, flopping face-first onto his mattress. Micky was close behind.

"Pete, is it cool if I just crash in your spot for now? I don't think my legs will let me up the stairs…" There was a metallic squeak, followed by snoring.

"That was fast." Peter just stood there, broom in hand, blinking.

"Neither of 'em needs to stay up like that on my account," Mike said, shaking his head. He joined Peter in his confetti clean-up. He brushed up as much as he could from the area rug and piled it into the dust pan.

Peter began sweeping up the tiny paper scraps. "Did you mean what you said to Micky? About not being worried?"

Mike scoffed at the question. "Of course I did. We've been through worse. Why should I be worried?" The truth was that he was terrified. This was only day four into what he assumed would be the longest month of his life and every portion of his physiology was absolutely _perplexed_ beyond all comprehension. His friends had fussed over him enough, though, and the last thing he wanted them to do was worry about him. That wasn't anyone else's job except Mike's. He refused to be a burden; that just wasn't his way.

The Texan looked up from the confetti mess to find Peter had already swept through half the entrance area of the house. "You work fast, don't ya, Shotgun?"

The blonde smiled cheerfully. "Yes, ma'am! …Oh no." His expression immediately fell. He smacked himself on the head. "Sir. Sir! MIKE. I'm so sorry."

"It's okay, Pete. No worries." He couldn't help being somewhat rattled. It was a small slip-up, but it was still there. "It's confusin' even to me."

"I hope we can fix it soon."

"Me too."

* * *

Note: There is not a lot of Mike. He's tall and skinny and I'm convinced that his bones are hollow like a bird's. He transports easy when unconscious. He doesn't fold up so well, though. He's all legs.

Working on part seven, trying to bridge a gap between one event and another so the ball can continue to roll toward more insanity.


	7. Chapter 7

Author's Note: This bit features a callback to one of my favorite childhood episodes of the show. Beware of sick leprechauns, boys.

* * *

The next few days had a feeling of near normalcy about them, which was welcomed by everyone. Mike had further tweaked the band's setlist to include more of their repertoire, while making sure any major vocal responsibilities were off of him for the time being. Pop Harper called them back for a couple of unscheduled shows. That meant there was plenty of food in the fridge and best of all, the rent could be paid on time for a change.

In his spare time, Micky remained busy trying to crack the mystery of a reversal potion. Davy continued his role researching the spell book and keeping tabs on the drummer to be sure he didn't improvise mixtures again. That corner of the living area was looking more and more like a mad scientist's lair each day.

Peter spent most of his time with Mike, doing his best to keep an eye on him. He was a little broodier than usual, it seemed. Mike sometimes went on those tangents, but this was much worse. If anything, he was becoming more introverted. He could say he wasn't worried all he wanted, but Peter didn't buy into that lie.

He had successfully gotten Mike to go with him to at least one movie, which made for a nice distraction…especially after the lady at the ticket window had referred to him as Peter's "girlfriend". It had taken a lot of persuasion to keep Mike from going back home right then.

Mike and Peter were on the deck, noodling out a little guitar and banjo ditty. After every few bars, Mike would stop and write some lines in his notebook. It felt wonderfully routine.

"I fink we may haff shomethin' here." Mike smiled around the pencil in his mouth. He stuck it behind his ear and nodded at his friend. "Wanna take it from the top again?"

Peter steadied his fingers on his banjo. "Sure thing."

Playing and writing felt normal, but Mike had not adjusted to the changes in his voice. He could still hear hints of his old self, though the tone and register was all wrong. It made him uncomfortable.

Yet here he was, singing a song about meeting a girl in Mexico. This one would have to be passed over to Peter, no doubt.

"I don't know why you won't sing anymore." The blonde adjusted the picks on his fingers. He began plucking out a Bach piece. "You sound fine to me."

"I don't sound like _me_ anymore," Mike argued. "Frankly, I don't want anyone to hear it."

Peter looked at him, pity in his eyes. "What are you talking about? You sound lovely." He saw Mike cringe at the word. "Well, you do. I could sit here and listen to you for hours, either voice."

It was a sweet sentiment. Mike had known Peter long enough to be assured that when he doled out compliments like that, he was nothing less than 150 percent sincere. "Thanks, Peter."

"I hate to interrupt, but it's test time again." Micky sat a glass of purple goop on the patio table. He followed up with a smaller glass of pink goop.

Mike eyeballed the mixtures carefully. "What's the purple stuff?"

"New potion."

"What's the pink stuff?"

"That's for your stomach if the purple stuff doesn't work."

Mike propped his arms on the edge of his guitar. "There's no chance you know what may come out of my mouth this time, is there? Locusts? Frogs?"

"There could be frogs," the drummer said, fidgeting. "But I can't guarantee they'll come out of your mouth."

"Oh… Eww. I ain't drinkin' that."

* * *

The three boys stood outside the bathroom, while poor Mike wretched inside.

"I thought the pink stuff would help," Micky called through the door.

Mike emerged from the bathroom, sickly pale and hair a mess. "I've breathed fire, broke out in green spots an' puked rainbows." He curled up in the nearby lounge chair. "Please find some magic words or somethin', Micky, because I can't take much more of this."

"Our girl needs tea," Davy chimed, patting Mike's head as he passed through to the kitchen.

He snarled. "Tea's not going to solve my problem."

"It'll solve at least one right now."

Mike was glad when the phone rang. It broke the mood and made them all stop hovering over him.

Micky spun around, searching the room. "Has anyone seen the phone lately?"

Peter thought a moment. "Did you try the table?"

"It's not there."

"No, _in_ it. Under the chess board."

"Last I saw of it, we had it on the cake platter," Davy called from the kitchen, "unless one of you moved it from there." He busied himself with the hot plate, still trying to brew tea.

Mike peered over his shoulder at the pullstring dummy in the corner. "Did anyone check with Mr. Schneider?"

"Wait! Found it!" Micky opened the jukebox and sure enough, there was their red rotary phone, jangling away. "Alright, who put the phone in with the 45's?"

Peter slouched, a bit ashamed. "Sorry."

Retrieving the phone, Micky finally answered it. He bumped the jukebox door shut with his hip. "Yes, you've reached the Monkees. We're available for weddings, parties, bar mitzvahs—"

"MAZEL TOV!" cheered the other three band members.

"—and pretty much anything else that pays. My name is Micky, how can I help you?" His corny fake smile gave way to a more genuine one as the caller spoke. "You saw us at Pop's? That's great! And you like the new girl…?" He pointed at Mike, who promptly stretched his hat all the way down over his face. "Of course! Hold on…" He put the phone to his chest, muffling the receiver. "They wanna talk to Shug."

Three sets of eyes locked onto the girl folded into the lounge chair. Mike shook his head fiercely, still hidden under his hat. "Nope nope nope nope—" The hat was yanked from his head and the receiver shoved into his face. The boys huddled around him; this could mean more work. "Who is it?"

Micky smiled. "Remember Toby Willis?"

Mike's eyes widened. "Oh no. No no NO. I'm not goin' through that again. No way, no how—" He suddenly found the phone against his head. "…Why, hello, this is Shuuuug… How is every lil' thing?" He bit his lip in a weak attempt to keep himself in check. "Ohh, yes, I've heard of your magazine, believe me." He rolled his eyes, then straightened up in his chair suddenly. "You want us where? …What? Uh…erhm… I'll have to discuss it with th' boys. Could you hold on for just a minute?" He clasped his hands over the receiver.

Micky was practically in Mike's face. "What is it? What does she want?" Mike pushed him away gently.

"You know that extra gig we picked up Sunday night? One of Toby's flunkies was there, checkin' out the talent. She put in a good word for us and now Chic Magazine wants us to play their company party next week."

Cheers and hugs went all around the room.

Mike continued. "Hold it! It's on one condition."

"What kind of condition?" asked Davy. If there was one thing he had learned from Mike, it was to be mindful of the details for any contract.

"They want to do a follow-up article on us, to sorta set the record straight." He let go a depressing sigh. "And they want Shug to be there, of course."

Micky pondered this rather carefully. "It's good money, Mike. You can't argue that."

"That's just it," the Texan groaned. "It's _great _money. But…"

"I think it's cute that Sugar has fans now." Leave it to Peter to try to find the bright side.

"Well… I…" Mike could not handle the pleading looks his friends were giving him. It was like a staring contest with three lost puppies. He uncovered the phone receiver. "Looks like we're in, Miss Willis. …Oh yes, dear, you too." He placed the receiver onto its cradle and put his head in his hands. "I can't believe this is happenin'."

Micky jumped up and down, punching the air. "We can eat! Woohoo!" Peter swung Davy around by the arms.

The only one not celebrating was, of course, Mike. A follow-up with a publication like Chic could go either way. Last time, it was near career suicide. At least the new editor was willing to make amends.

However, Mike felt that the world was already getting a little too comfortable with Shug Nesmith.

* * *

More notes: Everyone loves Shug. Except Mike. This puts him in both an identity crisis and an existential crisis, I'd guess. Also, awww Peter.

I miss boisterous, smartass Mike. Need to get him back on his feet somehow.

OH WAIT

THERE'S A PARTY COMING UP

OPEN THESE PRETZELS WITH YOUR DAINTY HANDS AND THIS MACHETE

Seriously, I am impatiently working toward scenes I want to write and ARGH MIKE YOU ARE KILLING ME.


	8. Chapter 8

Author's Note: I am amazed at the mileage I'm getting out of a callback to one episode. Sweet. Mike's life reaches a new low here. CANNOT WAIT TO DRAW THAT.

* * *

"Gentlemen, hello! And to your lady friend as well." Tow-headed Toby Willis, new editor-in-chief for Chic, seemed to glide across the floor, full length floral coat trailing behind her. She shook hands with Micky, Davy and Peter. "So glad you could make it." She stood on her toes to give Mike a kiss on either cheek. "It's wonderful to finally meet you, Sugar!"

"Just call me Shug," Mike grumbled through gritted teeth. "Everyone else seems to…"

Davy leaned toward Micky's ear. "Mike's getting kissed a lot lately."

"Well, everyone does love a pretty girl," Micky said with a small shrug.

Toby perched on the edge of her desk. "It is _so_ nice to see you boys again. When Teresa told me about the new line-up, I knew we needed to check in with you."

"New line-up? Oh, this isn't permanent, y'see." Davy was quick to correct the editor. "Shug is just filling in for Mike till he…gets back."

"Oh no," Toby said with a pout. "What happened?"

"Tonsillitis."

"Ben Cartwheel."

"Sprained hobereeber."

"Texas needs him."

The four looked at each other. They knew they should have gotten their stories straight.

Toby shook her head, concerned. "Poor boy. That's a lot to deal with. Well, like I told Shug over the phone, we would love to do a follow-up article on you. You know, set the record straight." She left her perch on the desk and returned to her seat behind it. "Now, as for the party…" Toby pulled a large notebook from her desk drawer. "We're booked at one of the biggest restaurants downtown. We should have at least a couple hundred people there, including Chic staff, their families, our sponsors, agents and of course our models. And you, my dears, will provide the entertainment."

Micky straightened in his seat. "Are you sure that our kind of 'entertainment' is what these people will dig? I mean, a bunch of long haired weirdos like us playing for…" He rolled his lip in and snorted, "…high society? Jolly what!"

"You forget, Mr. Dolenz, that Chic is representative of a younger, hipper generation. Besides, I owe you for getting rid of Robroy and Madame." Toby closed the huge notebook and pushed it aside. "I'll have my assistant get you the information for the party. She'll set up a time for the interview and a photo shoot, too." She looked at Mike and shook her head. "We'll need to fix you up, Shug. I'm afraid those jeans won't do. We need to show our readers what a classy lady you are."

Mike's ears were bright red. His head snapped toward Micky and Davy, who were about to choke from holding in their laughter. "Not one word outta EITHER of you!"

"She's fierce," Toby said, grinning widely. "I like that. Sure sign of a strong woman."

Mike had to look away. He made noises as he did so.

* * *

Prep work for the show began in haste. As much as the four friends wanted to goof off, they couldn't. There was simply too much to do in the handful of days leading up to the show.

TUESDAY, 3:45 PM

Rehearsal was interrupted by a phone call.

"I'd unplug that thing if I didn't think we'd miss something important," Micky groused. He tapped out a cadence on his snare's rim as he waited for Peter to hang up.

"That was the lady from the magazine. I've got directions to the restaurant," Peter brought the message from the kitchen to the bandstand. "It's the Shame On You…?"

"What?" Mike snagged the paper from his hands. "That can't be right. …Shame On You."

"Nothing like a restaurant with a built in guilt-trip!" Micky played a rimshot.

"They've got the money, so they can eat where they want, yeah?" Davy paused a moment. "Wait, they plan to feed us too, right?" Another rimshot. "Don't do that."

"We need to settle on what we're playin'. I'm not sure how you even start with a group like that," Mike scratched his head, then pushed his hair out of his eyes. "Keep it upbeat, I reckon."

Peter grabbed his bass and gave Mike a curious glance. "Are you gonna sing this time?"

Mike threw a hand up and vehemently shook his head.

"I think you should."

"Hey, why not?" Micky leaned over his toms a little, poking Mike in the shoulder with a drumstick.

Mike rolled his eyes. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't you the one who warned me about pronouns?"

"Oh yeah." Micky sat back down. "We've still got _some_ stuff you could sing, though, right?"

"I'm not singin'." Mike remained firm. Micky, Davy and Peter exchanged exasperated looks.

Micky was the most frustrated of all. "That potion backfired in more ways than one. I go for self-confidence and I get self-loathing."

This was one of those times Mike intentionally hid his face beneath his hair. "Sorry. I just don't think they'd prefer to hear my caterwaulin'. Just wait till I'm back to normal, okay?"

"I only hope this isn't the new normal," Davy muttered.

* * *

THURSDAY, NOONISH

The day had begun simple enough. After breakfast, Mike had gone to run errands. Upon returning to the pad, however, he found himself in a mess of lights, wires and frantic strangers. One of them approached him, blocking him at the front door. "Excuse me, miss, but you'll have to leave."

"I live here." He shoved an armload of groceries at the young fellow and stormed into the house.

A small brunette hurried to Mike, clipboard in hand. "You there! What are you doing here?"

"What's everybody doin', askin' me—I LIVE here!"

Clipboard Girl consulted her notes, then looked at Mike and nodded. "You must be Shug Nesmith. So sorry for the mix-up." She extended her hand. Mike shook it, eyeing her suspiciously. "I'm Teresa Dillard, Miss Willis's assistant. We should be ready for photos soon enough. …Excuse me." She directed her attention to the young man at the door, who still wasn't sure what to do with the groceries unceremoniously put upon him. "Eddie! Eddie, are you going to stand around all day or are you going to get my light levels right?" Teresa stomped toward Eddie and the mass of confusion that had invaded the sanctity of the pad.

Micky skidded out of the downstairs bedroom, hair halfway straightened and buttoning up one of his better shirts. He spied Mike and looped an arm around his waist. He took him to the side, just under the spiral staircase. "Where have you been? It's picture day!"

"We needed food. I dunno, maybe we like eatin'?" He picked at Micky's unruly mop. "What's goin' on here? I thought you gave up tryin' to straighten this mess?"

The drummer didn't look terribly thrilled with the idea. "Teresa said our photos would look better if I wasn't so…fuzzy-wuzzy." He blew at the hair in his face. It was a lot longer than he had realized.

"Go wash that mess. It's fine like it was."

Micky let go a breath of relief. "What about Teresa?"

"You let me worry about her." Mike further observed the chaos around him: Furniture was out of place, the décor had been rearranged, various items—including their beloved Mr. Schneider—had been piled into a corner. This was unacceptable in his eyes. It was only made worse when some other photo roadie began dragging instruments across the floor. Mike sprinted across the room, seizing both his blonde Gretsch and Peter's banjo from the kid's hands. "You do NOT touch these. Got that?"

The roadie just shrugged, apathy clear on his face. "So? We need the space in front of the window."

"You're tossing around our livelihood, you ever think about that?" Mike gently returned the instruments to their place at the bandstand. He spotted another photo roadie attempting to dismantle Micky's drum kit. He began swatting at him with his hat. "Shoo! SHOO!"

"Look, lady," the first roadie grumped, "Miss Dillard wants this space clear for pictures. After that, we can put stuff back."

Teresa emerged from the mess, clipboard still in hand. "Is there a problem?"

Mike growled beneath his breath. "You don't go into a man's home and start movin' stuff, no questions asked. What's the big idea?" He crossed his arms and stood, feet apart, hip tilted. He dared anyone to argue with him.

"That view is a perfect backdrop for a group photo. It just needs…" She twiddled her fingers at the air, searching for the perfect word. "…less junk."

"That 'junk' is how we make a livin', if you don't mind. I thought you were gonna make things 'right' with this, but I see you're just as bad as the last guy." He threw up his arms, irritated. He caught another roadie attempting to gather up Davy's maracas. Again, he pelted the poor sucker with his hat. "SHOO, I SAID! SHOO!"

"Wow, Miss Willis said you were 'assertive', but this is beyond even my expectations." She gave the taller girl a rather accusing look. "Next thing I know, you'll be telling those boys how they should look for this shoot."

Mike wondered if Micky was simply gifted in perfect timing, since he chose that moment to walk back through the pad, hair restored to its naturally curly glory. "Yeah, about that…" Mike began snickering.

Teresa rubbed her temples and moaned. "This cannot be happening."

"Look, I'm not tryin' to be a pain here, you've gotta understand that." Mike spoke calmly, keeping his temper under control. "We were promised an honest article this time and we'd like to stick to it, if you don't mind. That means our stuff stays right here. It's part of us. It's what we do." He hoped a smile would help diffuse the situation.

Teresa scribbled a few things on her ever-present clipboard and finally smiled back. "Fine, then. We'll do it your way. For the group."

"Thank you."

"We still need to get you made up, though." That friendly forgiving smile suddenly looked a touch evil. "Miss Willis sent some lovely dresses for you to try."

Mike scrunched his face up, irate. At least he had won part of the fight.

Micky and Peter were seated on the spiral staircase. They watched as Mike was carted into the downstairs bedroom by three very talkative women. One had an arm load of dresses, while the other two were armed with makeup cases and hairstyling tools.

"Amazing," Micky tutted. "As a perfect Southern gentleman, he can't get the time of day from a girl. As a sweet little Southern lady, he can't get away from them. What are the odds?"

A number of high-pitched screeches came from the bedroom. The door opened and Davy was escorted out by his ear. He was halfway dressed.

"Lookit that." He thumbed at the door as it slammed. "The place is surging with girls and where am I?"

"Standing in the kitchen in your sock feet," Peter laughed. "Has Davy Jones lost his touch? Heaven forbid!" He put a hand on his forehead in a dramatic pose; Micky followed suit.

"That's cute, that is." He joined his friends on the stairs. "Think this is a good idea? I mean, all this nonsense here." He waved at the strange people and photo equipment that seemed to be eating their living space alive.

"Mike's already fought for us pretty hard today," Micky replied. "If they screw things up this time, they're really in for it."

"I think she needs a break after all of this," Peter added.

"He, Peter."

"Sorry."

The bedroom door opened and the three stylists filed out. One of them motioned toward the room like she was calling a pet. "Come on, sweetie. Come on out!"

The boys each craned their necks to see what sort of mess those ladies managed to make with Mike. April hadn't been so bad, but she was only one person, not a small army catering to the "hip" and "trendy". They were almost used to girl Mike by now. He was still the same—all jeans and Western shirts—only with more curves. What stepped out of the bedroom in no way resembled that with which the boys had grown familiar. This girl was tall and thin, but rather shapely in the bold blue jumper the stylists had put on her. Her hair had been straightened, stopping just above her shoulders. The stylists had pulled it back enough to reveal the somewhat "mod" look makeup they had given her.

Davy had to rub his eyes. "Whoa."

"I second that whoa and raise you a nelly," Micky sputtered. "There is no way that's Mike."

The girl in the jumper gave a pitiful look at the three boys parked on the stairs. The eyes gave it away.

"It's Mike," they all chimed. They clambered down the stairs and circled the poor girl.

Micky was perplexed. "What did they do to your hair?"

"What did they do to your face?" Davy followed.

Mike whimpered. "Would it be bad manners if I jumped out th' window right now?"

"Is that really you under all that hair and makeup?" Micky was notorious for invading Mike's personal space, and invade he did. He was almost nose to nose with him. "Good grief, you're a _girl_."

"That's been established, yes." Mike's voice cracked, a trait that had carried over in spite of his new vocal range. "I guess the good part is that once I change back, no one will recognize me like this." He cast his eyes downward, at his feet. "Those are go-go boots, aren't they?"

"Yes," came the collective answer.

Mike could only emit a disgusted groan.

"Alright, everyone, I think we're ready!" Teresa shouted at the crew of strangers still afoot in the beach house. "If I could get the band over here by the bay window please?" She waved at the quartet huddled in the kitchen.

Unsure of what to do with himself, Mike sat on top of his amplifier and hunched over, elbows on his knees. Peter sat next to him and put an arm around his shoulder. "If it makes you feel any better, you're the prettiest girl who's not supposed to be a girl that I've ever seen."

It was such an absurd statement, yet so heartfelt that Mike had no choice but to laugh. He gave Peter a bear hug. "That's why you're one of my best friends, Pete."

* * *

Notes: Seriously can't wait to draw Shug in her mod makeover. For anyone wondering about Mike's hair being straightened… That's my best guess if that glorious mop was ever flat ironed. That hair had some crazy wave in it and egads, there was a LOT of it. (Check "Art for Monkees' Sake" and "The Devil and Peter Tork".)

He's starting to sound a little more like Mike, even if he *is* stuck in a dress right now… XD

Part nine means party time.


	9. Chapter 9

Author's Note: Party prep, wut wut. Also, Shug is such a delicate, graceful flower of a woman. ;)

* * *

SATURDAY, 4:00 PM

Micky had wheeled his drum kit to the car; Mike followed with guitars; Peter and Davy brought up the rear with amps. Packing the car was like an intricate puzzle. They had to arrange things a certain way or else it simply would not work.

Peter ran back into the house for his little Vox organ. He stacked it onto the pile of instruments in the trunk…and had to catch it as it fell off the stack. "It doesn't fit."

"You'll have to put it in your lap," Mike said as he secured the rest of the gear. "That's why we've got a backseat." He ambled back into the house for one final check of necessary items. "Guitars, banjo, organ, drums, amp, amp, amp… Hey, did anyone think to pick up our suits from th' cleaners?"

"Got 'em this morning." Micky brought a cluster of dry cleaning bags out of the downstairs closet. He passed them out to everyone. "Formal party, formal dress code. You're all going to look so darling in your little tuxedos!" He pinched Davy on the cheek in quite the motherly fashion.

Mike was still waiting. "Where's mine?"

"Uhh…" Micky avoided eye contact. "I didn't have it cleaned."

The girl spluttered, baffled. "But… I thought… Why not?"

Micky took the invitation from his pocket. He pointed to the bottom line. "See that? Black tie and cocktail dresses."

"But I _have_ a tuxedo, you just didn't get it cleaned for me."

"Mike, you can't wear a tux to this thing. It says so on the invite." He pulled one last bag from the closet. "You can wear this, though." He unzipped the bag enough for Mike to see a flash of green satin.

"Not th' green abomination," he moaned. "If I never wear another dress in my life, it'll be too soon. I just now got my hair back to normal." He ran his fingers through his bangs, letting the hair bounce back into place. His hair didn't take too kindly to straightening.

"I really hope this is the last time you have to do this." Micky passed the dress to the Texan. "I don't want to get used to this any more than you do." He caught the mortified look in Mike's eyes. "We'll fix this, babe. Don't worry."

Davy wasted no time getting dressed. He straightened his tie and smoothed down the lapels on his wine-patterned jacket, practically dancing through the living room. "What are you waiting for? This could be the best gig of our lives!"

"It's certainly the biggest." Peter struggled with his cummerbund. He couldn't quite fasten it behind his back. Mike slid the pleated piece of fabric around backwards, clipping it together in the front, and then whirled the fastener to the back. "How did you figure that out?"

Mike's cheeks flushed. "Um… ehrm… Bras kinda work the same way," he squeaked very quietly. He saw Peter's face turn just as red. "I'd better go crawl into that fluffy green thing." He nabbed the dry cleaning bag and went upstairs.

"Hey, Pete? You don't mind if Davy and I go ahead in the car, do you?" Micky stood in front of the mirror near the door. He attempted to tame his hair, but to no avail. "Mike's got the keys to the dune buggy, so you can catch us at the restaurant."

"Why?"

Davy checked his watch. "We have dates to pick up and there's not enough room for eight of us in there."

"Eight?" The blonde shook his head. "I know I'm not good with math, but where did you get eight?"

"Well, there's me and Davy and April and Teresa…" Micky counted on his fingers. "And then there's you and Mike and your dates, right?"

Poor Peter looked absolutely pained. He slid his foot back and forth nervously. "Ah…well…"

"You didn't get a date?" Davy gave him a pat on the back. Peter had always been very shy compared to the rest of them. "Don't you worry. Teresa has some very nice friends. I can call her—"

"It's not that. I just…" Peter fumbled with the words. It was like his mouth didn't want to cooperate with his brain. "I know this girl and I'm kind of afraid to ask her." He sighed. "And I know she doesn't have anyone…"

"You should ask her, then, Peter!" Micky jumped over the couch to the coffee table, grabbing the phone. "Let's give her a call, huh?"

The sound of kitten heels clanged on the metal stairs. Mike was a flurry of green satin and tulle, hair again clipped with a sparkly barrette. "If everybody's 'bout ready to go…" His foot slipped on one step and he caught himself on the railing, arms and legs akimbo. Some things didn't seem to change, even if the packaging did. He righted himself, straightened his skirt and carefully went down the remainder of the stairs.

Micky pulled the phone across the living room, putting the receiver in Peter's hand. "If you have a number for that girl, I'll dial it."

"You don't have to."

Micky and Davy locked gazes, then slowly turned toward the girl standing near the door. They both went pale.

Micky was practically in Peter's ear. "Are you kidding me?"

"You MUST be joking," Davy countered. "That's crazy!"

"Hey, um, Mike?" Peter shoved off his friends and made a step toward the dark-haired girl. He felt his face getting warmer. "You look nice."

"Thanks. The invite said it was formal," Mike answered, "and Micky made sure I knew it." He shook a fist at the drummer, who made playfully mean faces at him. He turned his attention back to Peter, noting the odd look on his face. "You alright? You look like somethin's botherin' you."

"Uh, yeah… Well, since Micky and Davy both said that this party is a…plus one invite and they each have plus ones… I… ugh…" At last he took a deep breath, hoping he could string his thoughts together. "Since it's unfair that you can't go out with anyone right now, I'd like you to be my date for tonight." He exhaled, relieved to have it out in the open. "I hope that's okay."

Mike fell back, propping himself against the door. It was enough of a shock, he could have been easily knocked over with a feather. "Didn't you ask anyone else? There's plenty of girls who would… I mean…" His heart sort of hurt in his chest. "Why me?"

"It wouldn't be right for my best friend to go to this thing alone." There was sincerity, and then there was Peter. "If you don't want to, that's okay, too." He gave Mike a hopeful look. He crossed his fingers behind his back.

The girl returned the look with a smile. "Then what kind of friend would I be doin' that to you?" Mike held out a crooked elbow. "I can't say no to that face. C'mon, you."

Peter squealed and was quick to run to Mike's side, looping his arm through Mike's elbow. "Micky said we have to take the dune buggy."

"Then I'm drivin'." Mike saluted the other two boys as he and his "date" went out the door.

Davy and Micky just stood there, gape-mouthed. Micky was still clutching the telephone. "What just happened?"

* * *

The quartet stood on the sidewalk, staring at the bright pink glow of neon on the restaurant's face.

_CHEZ MENU_

"So that's what it's called," Davy marveled. "Shame On You, Chez Menu…"

Peter huffed at him, frustrated. "How was I supposed to know? I failed French. Twice."

Micky snickered. "I bet it still comes with its own guilt trip."

"Ba-dump tink." As always, a perfectly timed chorus.

Davy's date, Teresa, charged through the four of them toward the door. "If you're all quite finished, we still have a lot of work to do."

Micky narrowed his eyes at the Englishman. "You had to ask the assistant, didn't you?"

"Brownie points?" He chased after the girl, nearly bowling the doorman over.

Mike began to untie the rope that secured the instruments into the trunk of the GTO. A dainty, well-manicured hand grasped his wrist. It was April.

"Shug, dear, what are you doing? You let the boys worry about that." She pulled Mike toward the restaurant. She was surprisingly strong. "Besides, you don't want to mess up your dress, do you? And…oh! Did you not make-up for tonight? Come on, let's take care of that."

Mike glanced skyward, praying for help. He reluctantly trudged behind April to the ladies' room.

* * *

Mike continues to take one for the team. But he does so hate being made up. Also, please visualize a six foot beanpole of a woman careening down the stairs in a green satin and tulle explosion. I mean, seriously. SO MUCH GRACE.

And really, Peter means well. Hope I haven't made anyone uncomfortable with that. It was just too cute. ;;_;;


	10. Chapter 10

Author's Note: Full party scene. Difficult to write. Probably more difficult to read. :P

* * *

As Toby went through her list of announcements and thanks, the quartet lined up to take the stage. Davy peered through the curtains at the stage's edge. "That's quite a crowd out there."

"No sweat, right, guys?" Micky took in the worried faces around him. "C'mon, it's just like playing at Pop's… Maybe times twelve."

Peter went pale. "I think I may be sick." He felt a hand close around his with a reassuring squeeze.

…Mike.

"Hang in there, Shotgun," he said with a grin. "This ain't much different than anythin' else we've done, right?" Peter nodded, hesitantly at first, then finally in full agreement.

…And away they went.

It really wasn't any different than the past few shows at the restaurant, save for the formal wear. While their audience was a rather posh bunch, they were also, as Toby had said, "hip" and seemed to be enjoying themselves. A few of them had taken advantage of the open space in front of the stage and were dancing.

Halfway through the set, Micky waved Mike toward the drum riser. "Hey, Shug—Looks like you have an admirer." He nodded at an older man standing off to the side. "He's been staring at you since 'Clarksville'." The man gave Mike a goofy smile, followed by a wink.

Mike felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He shuddered. "Eeeurgh."

"Just ignore him," Micky advised. "He's probably about three sheets by now anyway." He watched the old guy another minute and sure enough, he was nursing a drink and swaying. Micky got Davy and Peter's attention and informed them of the situation. "Just keep an eye on him, okay?"

"Right."

This far into the show, the group had stuck to Mike's meticulously prepared playlist. Davy had taken on a surprise announcement about a double-parked car, but outside of that, Mike had only contributed a handful of harmonies, just as they had rehearsed. Between songs, Peter whispered something to Davy, which made the Englishman grin from ear to ear. He hopped onto the drum riser, passing the message onto Micky, who actually cackled.

Mike was not in on the joke. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing!" they all answered through snickers.

The girl didn't quite believe them. Mike stepped out of the spotlight a moment, checking his dress. He wondered if maybe that off-the-shoulder thing wasn't such a good idea with his guitar strap, but as far as he could tell, nothing naughty was showing. So, why were the guys smiling like idiots?

He shrugged and nodded for the next song on the list. Peter bounced out the opening bass line and everyone else fell into place.

And no one sang.

The Texan repeated a couple of chords, as Peter improvised a bass fill-in.

Still no singing. Mike glared at the boys, who were all staring at him in anticipation. "What are you doing?" he whispered.

"Waiting for you to sing," said Micky.

"I told you, I'm not singin'."

"It's _your_ song," Peter argued. "You need to sing it."

"And we can play this game all night," Davy added, wickedly wiggling his eyebrows.

Mike's expression was that of absolute horror. "Mutiny, I swear."

Manners and professionalism went out the window. The three boys finally shouted at their leader: "JUST SING!"

They looped the opening couple of bars again. Mike hadn't felt this nervous since…well, since they had first become a group. If this would end the argument and make them happy, then fine, he would do it. He swallowed the knot in his throat and stepped up to the mic.

_All men must have someone, have someone…  
Who would never take advantage  
Of the love bright as the sun…_

As Mike sang and that new voice came out, he noticed his three friends seemed almost…giddy. Maybe it wasn't as bad as he thought? Micky jumped in with his harmonies, followed by Davy and Peter, and it sounded even better. The wriggling of nerves in Mike's stomach faded and at last, he stopped feeling so terribly stifled and embarrassed. For that moment, he almost felt _normal_ again.

The song ended and the Texan sighed in relief. The smile he wore was heartfelt. Davy gave him a hug.

"I'm glad you're still in there, Mike. I was getting worried."

"Thanks for that, Tiny."

The group's little victory on stage had distracted them from the applause coming from the party audience. Toby Willis was cheering wildly from her seat in the front. It was easy to forget that as far as the outside world was concerned, this was the first time _Shug_ had ever sung anything with the group.

"Wow, if you do 'Sweet Young Thing' with that voice, you'll have every man here asking for your number," Micky laughed.

The guitarist raised an eyebrow and a very mischievous look crept onto his face. Even with his features rewritten and a face full of makeup, that look was undoubtedly Mike. "Let's have some fun with this."

As the band played through the rest of their now-altered set, it was easy to see Mike was enjoying himself for the first time in what had been far too long. The silly on-stage banter had returned, all four band members mugged for the Chic photographer, and best of all, it looked like Mike had snapped out of his funk, if only for a little while. The new voice was definitely different, but not altogether terrible.

The group reached the end of the show and happily lined up to take their bows. Micky almost did a flying tackle at Mike, seizing him in a headlock and rapping his knuckles on the girl's head. "You! You devil!" He held Mike's head in both his hands and comically kissed him on the cheek. "Why didn't you tell us about that voice?"

"It's not permanent, y'know," Mike was eager to point out.

"I know, but…geez, man, you've been holding out on us the past couple of weeks." He smacked Mike in the arm. "Next time, share!"

With the show over, the crowd quieted down, focusing on their food and idle gossip. A few audience members made their way to the stage to congratulate the band on a job well done. Sure enough, a handful of men approached "Shug" with either a terrible pick-up line or a phone number scribbled on a napkin. Mike was sure he saw Davy and Micky exchanging money over this. Peter had apparently kept a scorecard.

As Mike began gathering up cords, Micky clapped him on the shoulder. "Davy and I are gonna do the meet and greet thing, then get some food with the ladies. You coming?"

"Just as soon as Peter and I put a few things away," he answered. "We'll come back to th' table once we're done." He nodded toward April, who waved happily and blew kisses of approval. Mike could only chuckle and shake his head. "Bless that gal's heart. She's so worried about teachin' me to be more ladylike. She's gonna be horrified when she learns where I keep my keys."

Micky's eyebrows knitted together curiously. Mike reached into the top of his dress, retrieving the dune buggy's key, as well as the house key from his cleavage. Micky's eyes boggled and he turned about three shades pinker. "Don't you DARE do that in front of me again, Michael Nesmith, or so help me, I'll…I'll…" He trailed off, realizing that any threats he had were useless against the girl in front of him, who was laughing so hard, she had tears in her eyes.

"Your face! Priceless!"

Micky's face remained warm. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

Mike held up a hand and pinched the air. "Maybe just a little." The laughing fit subsided. "At least maybe just for tonight, anyway. What have I got left, a week?"

"Ten days."

Mike gave a firm nod. "Ten days."

"Hang in there, man. I'll fix it." Micky hopped down from the stage, ignoring the stairs entirely. "Think you'll be alright for a little while?"

"Sure, Pete's up here, so we'll have most of th' simple stuff ready to go soon." Mike waved at Peter, who was carefully packing away his bass as he chatted with Davy. The blonde boy casually saluted. "We've got this. Now go! You got dates waitin'!"

"Yes, Mama Nez! I'mma gittin'!" Micky scurried into the crowd, with Davy not far behind.

"What was Mike laughing about? What'd I miss?"

"I'll explain it to you when you're older."

"Oh, come _on_, Micky!"

Mike returned his guitar to its case, then carefully set the instrument alongside Peter's bass. He stooped to tend to his amp when someone brushed him along the wrist. He was so focused on his work, that the unexpected touch made him jump. He turned to see the creepy old man from earlier, staring at him. He stood and took a couple steps back.

"Hello, dear!" The older man bobbed a little, clearly drunk. "You're a lot taller than I expected. I like tall women."

"That's…that's nice." Mike's stomach knotted up again. "I've got work to do now, though, so if you don't mind—" He turned his back to the creeper, hoping he would get the point.

"That's no way to be," the old man persisted. He saw an opportunity and ran a finger along the girl's ankle. Mike nearly jumped out of his skin. "Old Irving doesn't want to hurt you…"

"I don't wanna hurt ol' Irving, thanks very much," Mike stammered. He tripped on Davy's tambourine, trying to maneuver away from the man.

Peter's ears perked up at the rattling noise; he saw Mike moving backwards and some older man grabbing at the guitarist's feet. He was quick to step between them. "Whatever you think you're doing, stop."

The old man let go a drunken laugh. "Oh, come now… Can't an old guy like me have a little fun? How about it, sweetness? Can't you show an old man a little sympathy?"

Peter was firm. "That's no way to treat a lady, mister." He stood with his arms and legs apart, acting as a shield for his friend. "Go back to your seat and leave her alone, okay?"

"And if I don't?"

"Then you'll have to deal with me." The boy stood up straighter, trying his best to appear more imposing.

"Peter, you don't have to do this," the girl said quietly. "I'm sure I can kick him if I have to."

"I won't let him talk to you that way. It's not right." The blonde eyed Irving, daring him to take another step forward. The older man put his hands up and backed away from the stage. Once Peter felt it was safe again, he resumed packing away his things.

Mike retrieved Davy's instruments from the floor, carrying them in a heap against his chest. Davy kept a small case for them for easier transport; it was tucked behind the curtain at stage right. Mike took two steps in that direction before he felt something clamp around his ankle, pulling his feet out from under him. Percussion instruments flew everywhere; Mike's face hit the stage floor hard enough that he cut his lip against a tooth.

"I don't take lip from any woman or her long-haired freak friends," a grizzly voice hissed. It was Irving the creeper, hand still firmly around Mike's ankle.

"PETER!" That high-pitched wail sounded nothing like Mike and everything like a woman terrified.

Peter didn't even wait for Mike to finish calling him; he turned on his heels the moment he heard the crash of maracas and tambourines. He ran at the old guy, landing a fist against his jaw. It caught Irving by surprise enough that he let go of Mike. Mike was still on the floor, but quickly crawled out of reach. He huddled against the bandstand, trying to get his thoughts together.

By now, the crowd near the stage was rumbling. The wave of discontent spread to the back of the room, where Micky and Davy sat with April and Teresa. Teresa had been preoccupied with her work the entire evening, which didn't leave much room for her to invest interest in the patented Davy Jones "love bug". Sweet as she was, April seemed to be more focused on planning double dates and a "girls' night out" with Shug. She felt that the poor girl needed a role model, especially someone with whom she could see eye to eye quite literally. The commotion at the stage caught Micky's eye. He stood on his chair for a better look.

April was puzzled. "What's going on?"

"I think Peter and Shug are in trouble." He grabbed at Davy's hands, pulling him onto the chair with him, a delicate balancing act. "Something's not right. C'mon." Micky leapt off the chair and took a bow. "Excuse us, ladies. We'll be right back. Maybe. Hopefully." He chewed at his bottom lip, completely unsure of what he was about to walk into. "We'll make sure you get home." The drummer pushed his way through the crowd, winding between tables and chairs and fashion executives.

"I've got a bad feeling about this," Davy said, observing the fracas as they got closer.

"I really don't like violence," Peter whimpered. He stared at his hand, which had begun throbbing. "I really REALLY don't like violence." He knelt down a moment to clear his head. He turned, just barely looking over his shoulder at Mike. "You alright?"

"I'll live," came the weak reply. Mike could taste copper. A glance down at the front of his dress revealed a few blood stains on the bodice, as well as a rip in one of the decorative shoulder pieces where it had snagged on the stage. "Can't say as much for th' dress."

Irving took advantage of Peter's distraction and managed a solid punch in his right eye. The boy fell onto the stage, stunned. He clutched at his face.

Davy saw Peter collapse. "Some nutter just threw a fist at Peter!" He couldn't get through the sea of people fast enough.

One thing that had not been tested with Mike's change was his temper. He was generally level-headed, but if the right—or wrong—thing set him off, he could lose his mellow ways in an instant. Seeing Peter unfairly decked made something in his head snap. He made a run at the old creeper, kicking off his shoes in the process, and socked him square in the nose.

"You can mess with me all ya want, but I ain't about t'let you mess with mah friends!"

Micky knew that tone of voice, even in a different register. "Great, Mike's gone full Texas. This is bad." He found himself looking at one very angry beanpole of a girl, dress torn and face bloodied. She was in a perfect fighter's stance. "Oh my God."

Davy scrambled onto the stage, quick to tend to his friend. "Peter? Are you still awake?"

"They're coming in droves now, are they?" Irving wiped his bloodied nose on his coat sleeve. He looked at Mike and sneered. "Think you're tough, don't you, missy?"

"You jus' try me, you stinkin' ol' drunk," Mike hissed.

Irving grinned…and aimed a swing at Davy, who was still trying to bring Peter around. The boy winced, preparing for a hit that never made contact. He heard it clear as day, though. He also heard the crowd react with gasps and screams. When Davy opened his eyes, he saw Mike, halfway slumped over, arms up to block the little Englishman from a harsh punch in the face.

The crowd was incensed.

"What kind of cretin hits a woman?"

"Get him out of here!"

"Security!"

Finally, Irving was subdued by a few party goers and held in the coat check room until the police arrived. Witnesses were gathered, statements taken and emergency personnel called to tend to the wounded.

"Well, that escalated quickly." Micky took a seat beside Mike, who was sporting a very impressive black eye. He glanced at Peter, who had a matching injury. "Look at you two. Peas in a pod. A pod that should have called for help!"

Peter was ashamed of himself. Mike just looked angry. "It was self-defense against a drunk," the Texan said flatly.

"You did a bang-up job on his nose, alright," Davy laughed, impressed. Micky shot him a hard look of disapproval. "I mean…wow. Uh… What a shame such a sweet girl had to punch a bloke." He lowered his face near Mike's ear. "Nice block. Thanks."

The quartet spotted Toby as she walked through the main dining room, speaking with one of a handful of police officers at the scene. She made eye contact with each of the musicians, who all quickly looked away. There was an unspoken group wish for invisibility.

The editor threw her arms around Mike, holding him close. "Oh honey… You have no idea how sorry I am." She backed away, still holding onto the girl's shoulders. "Your poor eye." She turned to face Peter and repeated the ritual, with hugging and apologies. "You too? I feel just terrible. I had no idea Irving Class was such a…such a…"

"Pig?" Davy offered.

"Lowlife?" added Micky.

"Jerkface? Ow…" Speaking made Peter's face ache.

Mike straightened in his chair. "What'd you say his last name was?"

"Class," Toby replied. "He's part of High-Class Music Publishing."

Mike nodded. "Mm-hmm. Got a brother named Bernie?"

"Yes, you know him?"

He lowered his voice to a murmur. "I'll say that our paths have crossed." Boy, did his face hurt. His chest and arms felt pretty rotten, too. If he felt that bad, he knew Peter had to feel even worse.

Peter was fast becoming a whimpering mess. "I'm sorry we ruined your party, Miss Willis." He winced and quickly put a hand to his face.

"Don't be silly," Toby said. She took his hand in hers, patting it gently. "If anyone ruined it, it was Irving. What you did was wonderful, defending your lady friend like that. If she's smart, she'll stick with you." She gave him a wink.

Peter wanted to smile, but again, his face hurt too much. He wondered if he had sprained a dimple.

* * *

Getting home was as much a disaster as the party's end. Toby located extra staff to help Micky and Davy load the GTO with their instruments and equipment since Mike and Peter were both ailing. Davy offered to take April and Teresa home in the dune buggy. April was appreciative. Teresa, however, opted to stay at the restaurant to help Toby make sense of the chaos. Micky took on the responsibility of getting his injured friends back to the beach house.

Mike and Peter did what they could to help unload the car, though setting up the bandstand at the pad would have to wait at least until tomorrow. They spent more time bumping into things than they did actually helping, vision slightly skewed for both of them. Peter gave up and retreated to the balcony deck.

"What are you doin' out here by yourself?" Mike moved carefully, trying not to trip on anything. "Here." He handed the boy an ice pack.

Peter took the pack and put it against his face. "Thanks. What about you? We've only got one ice bag."

Mike sat down next to him and held up a little paper-wrapped rectangle. "Well, we have at least one ice cream sandwich." He held it against his own eye, cringing. "Anyway, like I was askin'… What are you doin' out here?"

Peter adjusted the ice on his eye. "You know how when you were little and if you were bad, your mom would say 'I want you to think about what you've done'?" He looked at the deck flooring. "I'm thinking about what I've done. I feel terrible."

"Don't beat yourself up over it. That won't make you feel any better." Mike put an arm over the boy's shoulder. "It's my opinion that what you did was pretty noble. It's not everyone who'll come to th' rescue like that."

"Mike, you broke his nose."

"Only after you cracked his jaw a good 'un."

Peter groaned and put his head in his hands. He hissed at the pain and was quickly upright again. "I hated how he was talking to you. He should have shown you some respect." He frowned. "Then he tried to hurt you…which he finally did because of me."

"I'm th' one who put my face in th' way, so I earned this." Mike gestured at his own black eye. The ice cream sandwich wasn't doing as much good as he hoped. He gave up on it and opened the thing, breaking it in half. He placed a piece in Peter's free hand. "Here, since we kinda missed dinner." He tapped one half against the other. "To best friends an' butt whoopin's."

Finally, a smile from the blonde. "Lousy date, huh?"

"I'm not exactly an authority on a gal's perspective," Mike answered, mouth half full of ice cream. He finished quickly. "But I'd say it was pretty fun."

Peter tilted his head curiously. "You're kidding!"

"No, now it's not all that bad. We had a great gig, right?"

"Well, yeah."

"Everybody loved us and we had fun." He wolfed down another chunk of ice cream. "Even if you count th' fistfight, we still came out on top." He nodded at Peter's hand. "You better eat that, it's meltin'."

"Michael, you got a black eye!"

Mike winked with his good eye. "When I used to tussle with my cousins back home, this kinda thing was common. Clara fought dirty, though. She used her elbow." Peter seemed taken aback. "My family's a little rough around th' edges."

Peter halfheartedly nibbled at his half of the ice cream sandwich. Truth be told, he didn't have much appetite, even after skipping dinner. "Have you thought about what you'll do if you can't change back?"

"I'm tryin' not to think like that," Mike sighed. He picked at the torn piece of fabric hanging from his dress. "Gotta stay positive."

"But what if you're stuck?"

Mike considered the question, rolled it around in his head a moment or two. If this accident was permanent, what _would_ he do? He had spent all this time hanging his hope on Micky's chemist skills; there was no contingency plan. "I hadn't given it a lot of thought." He dwelled on the idea, 'what if', then something hit him. "Is that why you asked me to be your date?"

Peter nearly choked on his ice cream. A couple of pats on the back later, he was fine. "I just thought that if you really were stuck as a girl, it would be good if someone did something nice for you, like ask you out." He flung the remainder of the ice cream over the balcony for the gulls. "I don't know if anyone else would understand your problem, so…"

"So stick with my friends." It was a sweet and noble thought, Mike could give him that. The boys always made it a point to take care of each other.

"Right." Peter passed the ice pack to the girl. "You've had enough problems with this, I figured you needed a little kindness."

"Thanks, Pete."

Silence fell over the two of them. It was funny, the ocean sounded louder than ever right then.

Peter ruffled his own hair, then scratched at the back of his neck. He struggled to keep steady eye contact with his friend. "If you _are_ stuck as a girl, um…you've always got me."

Mike gaped at him, blinking. "Peter…"

"You were willing to go to Hell for me, Michael. It's the least I could do for you." His eyes were sad. "I owe you."

"You don't owe me anythin'. I don't know why you think you would."

Peter fidgeted, rubbing over the back of his knuckles. His hand was still sore from the fight. "Can I at least _try_ to do one more nice thing for you tonight? Promise you won't get mad?"

"Pshhh, please," Mike said dismissively. "There's no way you could make me mad. You're th' human embodiment of a puppy fer' cryin' out loud."

The puppy-eyed boy took a chance and landed a kiss on the girl's lips. He lingered there a moment, then smiled and skipped into the house. "Good night!"

Mike continued to sit on the bench outside, stunned. His heart felt like it had completely dislodged from his chest and was somewhere near his feet by now. He buried his face in layers of skirt in order to muffle a scream.

Why did it have to keep getting _worse?_

* * *

More notes: I may have warned you guys a while back that Peter would have a crush. Well, there you go. I'm actually not a "slash" person; I just think that things would be very confusing for an innocent like him. Shug is Peter's ideal woman. She just happens to also be Mike.

"To best friends and butt whoopin's" will be a toast I will use someday, I swear.

_"You were willing to go to Hell for me, Michael. It's the least I could do for you."_ - I wrote it and even *I* got serious feels. ;;_;; PETER, LET ME HOLD YOU SWEET PUPPY BOY.


	11. Chapter 11

Author's Note: Day after the party. Mike's kind of in crisis mode again. At this point, the boys have a little over a week to resolve Mike's problems. Yep, problems plural.

* * *

Micky rolled out of bed at the crack of noon. The best part about a Saturday night gig was that it meant the boys could have a lazy Sunday. He threw a pillow at the other bed. "Rise and shine, princess!" The pillow plopped onto an empty mattress. "Mike?" He wandered out to the upstairs landing. "Hey, Mike?" Something didn't smell right. Literally. Was that burning coffee?

As the drummer descended the staircase, the smell got worse. "Mike, are you down here?" He spied the Texan seated at the table in the living area, fiddling with the chemistry set. "Hey! HEY! Don't mess with that!"

Mike was surrounded by loose pages of steno paper, some crumpled into little balls. He was focused on the spell book, marking pages with strips of paper and taking notes. He was in his pajamas, hair a total mess all over his head. He had one pencil in his hand and another behind his ear. Both showed a disconcerting number of bite marks. Those doe eyes of his were equally disturbing, both of them bloodshot.

Micky snapped his fingers in front of Mike's nose. "HEY!" The girl jumped and yelped. The guitarist looked at Micky, his expression a cross between guilty and just plain lost. "Mike, what are you doing?"

"I found somethin'." He frantically began flipping through the book, mindful of his own bookmarks.

"How long have you been awake?"

"I never really went to bed." He continued pawing at the book. "Too much to think about. Too much to do."

Micky observed the coffee pot seated on the Bunsen burner, as well as the heavily stained coffee cup next to it. There was also half a box of cereal on its side, with little flakes of the stuff everywhere. He set the box upright. He noticed that Mike was shivering all over. "Don't you think you should get some rest?"

"No no no no! We have to fix this!" He made a reach for the coffee pot. Micky stopped him.

"How much coffee have you had, Michael?"

Mike, still quaking, grabbed the coffee tin with both hands. He gave it a good shake, listening to the contents rattle around, then latched onto the top. He pulled a little too hard and ended up with coffee grounds in his face and lap. He finally handed the can to Micky. "It was full last night."

"You drank half a can of coffee?!"

Mike was wild-eyed. "I may need to start chewin' the grounds." He reached for the can. Micky was quick to put it out of reach.

"No, what you need to do is get this out of your system and sleep. Come on." He tried to hoist Mike up from the chair by an arm. He literally vibrated out of his grip, slipping into the floor.

"Ohhh no," Mike gasped. He shook his head, running his fingers clumsily through his hair. "There's somethin' in my hair." He looked up at his friend. "Micky, why are there Frosted Flakes in my hair?"

Micky could only shake his head. He squatted in the floor behind his friend, looping his arms under Mike's. He stood and hoisted him up as far as he could. He dragged him out of the corner toward the lounge chair. It was like dragging a shivering sack of potatoes. "You can't make science, Mike. Not in your present condition."

"I found somethin', though!" Mike protested as Micky hauled him across the living room. "There's a recipe in there that might come in handy!"

Micky stopped, hopeful. "Is it a reversal spell?"

Mike wagged his head back and forth. "No, but it's a backup plan."

"What do you mean, a 'backup plan'?" Micky gently dropped Mike into the chair. He propped the girl's feet on the ottoman.

"In case we can't fix this. I have it marked in the book." Poor Mike continued to squirm restlessly. "I made notes, too."

As Micky rifled through the papers on the table, he could see where Mike's coffee buzz had set in. His writing had gone from almost legible to impossible. He did find a note marking a memory potion. It made him sick to his stomach. "I can't let you do this. It's like taking an eraser to your brain."

"I can't be two people, Micky. If I'm stuck like this, I don't wanna deal with all the confusion." He had drawn his knees to his chest. He hadn't stopped shaking yet. "You can keep Shug an' everybody'll be happy."

Micky crumpled the notes for that particular potion and pelted it at Mike's head. Hard. "Shug is just a temporary stage name right now, all things considered. You do this and we lose everything that makes you _Mike_. I'm not hip to this plan one bit." He sighed, noticing the Bunsen burner was still going. "What's gotten into you? Aside from the half gallon of coffee, that is."

"I got problems, man."

"You wanna talk about it?"

Mike crossed his arms and huddled even tighter into a ball in the chair.

"That bad, huh?"

"I think someone's in love with me." Mike's voice was barely above a whisper. "If it's not love, it's a very strong like."

"Aww, that's sweet." Micky returned to the living room and stooped beside the chair. He patted Mike on the knees. "You're already on your way back to normal. What's her name?"

"Him."

"Him?" The brunet boy stumbled backwards a moment.

Mike shifted uncomfortably in the chair. "Even got a kiss." He looked up at Micky, face red.

The drummer put his hands on his hips and scoffed in disbelief. "Mike, that wasn't an 'I'm-in-love' kiss I gave you."

"I wasn't talkin' about you," Mike replied with a dismissive hand. "I'm used to that. You're half-Italian, half…crazy."

"Aw, don'ta breaka your Uncle Micky's heart!" Micky suddenly donned a large handlebar mustache and rumpled sweater, as well as a terrible accent. He grabbed Mike's face in both his hands, squishing his cheeks. "You do that anna you disappointa your momma!"

"Leggo mah faysh, Mickah. Ah'm sheriosh."

He examined the girl's face as he held it. "That shiner is looking better. Still pretty purple, but at least I can see your eye again." He let go of Mike's face and retreated to the kitchen. "Maybe that guy has a crush on you?" He rattled things around in the cupboard.

"That's what I'm afraid of." Mike's voice still had a quaver to it; he continued to shake all over. He held his hand in front of his face. Well, he tried to. He was trembling so much, he couldn't hold his own hand still. "What is wrong with mRRF!?" Micky shoved a piece of bread in his mouth. "HRRRF!"

"You eat that and drink this." He dutifully stuck a glass of water in Mike's hands, cupping both of the girl's hands around it. "After that much coffee, you're on the fast track to caffeine poisoning."

"Brrf—"

"No 'buts'," Micky argued, voice stern. "I saw this happen to one of my roomies back home during finals. You've got enough problems without us having to call a doctor." He waited patiently, figuring that Mike would argue with him. He was the stubborn sort, so Micky had learned to expect it. The closest he got to an "argument" was a low grumble, all around a mouthful of sandwich bread.

Peter emerged from the downstairs bedroom. He sniffed the air. "What smells like a burning diner?"

"Mike decided to pull an all-nighter," Micky answered. "And now we're short on coffee and cereal." Mike pulled a face and stuck out his tongue.

Peter narrowed his eyes at the top of Mike's head. "Are those Frosted Flakes in your hair?"

The Texan sighed. "Rough night."

"How's the eye?"

"How's yours?"

"Still purple, but not as puffy." He peered over the chair and pulled Mike's hair out of his face. "Yours is about the same. I was worried after seeing it last night." He continued to hold the girl's bangs back against the top of her head. "You shouldn't hide so much of your face."

Mike shook his head, yanking his hair out of Peter's hand. It fell back into his face, a near-black tousled mess. "It's my face, I can hide it if I want." He wished his hat wasn't in the bedroom. He'd have preferred to have it handy to hide under.

"It'll go away in a few days," Peter said, voice sympathetic. He gave that disarming grin of his and Mike felt his heart sink all over again. "Aw no, you look kinda sick."

"He needs to walk that stuff off." Micky stood over the guitarist, arms folded. "Come on, up you go." He offered a hand to the girl.

"No, no, I'm fine." Mike waved at the drummer's hand to push it away; Peter took advantage of this and pulled him to his feet. He was a quaking, unstable mess.

"No, you're not, Michael." Peter put Mike's arm over his shoulder, then supported him carefully under the armpits, very mindful of where his hands went.

Micky supported him on the opposite side. "You're going to vibrate through the walls at this rate." He and Peter walked their friend around the entirety of the pad, until Mike was able to stand on his own without his knees buckling. "I think you'll be okay, but keep moving for a while until you stop shaking." He handed the girl another piece of bread and yet another glass of water.

Peter waited till Mike was somewhat settled, then tugged on the sleeve of the other boy's robe. "Hey, Micky? Could I talk to you about something?"

"Sure, what's eatin' ya, Pete?"

"Erhm… Can we talk in private?" Peter nodded his head toward the deck outside. "It's kind of important." He fussed with his pajama buttons.

"No problem, babe." Micky followed Peter to the door onto the balcony. He wagged a finger at Mike before stepping outside. "Keep walking, keep eating and keep drinking. That's an order."

"You're not my real mother," Mike snarked, cheeks full of Wonderbread. He tromped around the pad, starting another lap.

"Another quip like that, young lady, and you're grounded!"

"I'm'onna run away an' join a rock 'n roll band!" Tromp, tromp, tromp.

* * *

Micky propped himself on the deck railing. "So, what's up, Big Peter?"

The blonde sat opposite Micky in one of the worn chairs next to the patio table. "I need some advice. About girls." He scuffed the soles of his footie pajamas on the deck. "About _a_ girl."

Micky's face lit up. "You diggin' on a chick? That's great! Why didn't you say something sooner?" He playfully punched the boy in the arm. "Have you asked her out yet?"

Peter scratched at the back of his neck. "Well…yeah."

Micky hoisted a fist and punched at the air, face split into a wide grin. He was proud of the boy for finally getting out there again. "So how did it go?"

"She _said_ she had a good time." Peter shook his head, flipping his bangs out of his eyes. His face was difficult to read. Half of him wanted to smile, the other half felt extraordinarily uneasy. "Have you ever accidentally fallen in love with someone?"

"That's how it works as a rule." Micky was reassuring. After all, he had already been through too many rejections to count. "Give it time. You'll win her over."

"That's just it. I'm not supposed to." Peter moved to sit next to Micky on the railing. The drummer looked at him quizzically. "I shouldn't fall in love with her, but I kinda did."

"Not another debutante, I hope." His eyes widened. "You didn't steal another portrait, did you?"

"Nooo, no," Peter half-laughed, shaking his head. "She's nothing like Miss Cartwright. She's… She's more like us. She's normal."

"If you wanna call four frequently out-of-work long-haired weirdos 'normal'…"

Peter straightened, still perched on the balcony railing. He wrung his hands, as though trying to pull suitable words from the air. "Um…well… She's very down-to-earth…and she's smart. She's _really_ smart. She's got a lot of patience with me, too. Doesn't pick at me for being…a little slower than everyone else." His shoulders drooped a bit in embarrassment. "If she says something that I don't understand, she'll explain it to me." He paused, collecting his thoughts. "Oh! She digs music, too."

Micky furrowed his brow. "A fan of musicians, huh? Peter, we've all been down that road before."

The boy shook his head vehemently. "It's not like that at all. She plays it. She _understands_ it." He propped his chin in his palm. "It's part of what makes her special."

"Wow." Micky had expected Peter's usual spate of puppy-love. He was not prepared for this level of adoration. "You really like this girl, don't you?"

Peter nodded, smiling bigger than ever. "She's perfect."

Micky scooted closer, patting the boy on the back. He let Peter rest his head on his shoulder. "You really do have it bad."

"It's like being in love with the sun."

It was true that Peter was a little slower than most people. Mike had always said he was just a "late bloomer". There were times, though, when he could be incredibly astute. Micky wondered if the boy was secretly a genius who simply had an overcrowded brain. _Like being in love with the sun_. It was an amazing little allegory. However, one glance at Peter's face and reality, much like a blazing sunrise, broke through.

"Peter, we have a problem."

"Hmm?"

There was no cautious way to approach it. "You've described your dream girl…and you've had your eyes on Mike the whole time."

Peter yanked his night cap down as far as it would go, obscuring most of his now very red face. "I told you it was an accident!" Micky grabbed it by the tassel, taking it completely off the boy's head.

"I didn't realize I had made more than one mess with this thing," Micky groaned in misery. He pulled Peter's hat over his own face. He waved his arms at the bay window, attempting to speak, but only squeaking. He snarled, finally blurting out, "IT'S _MIKE_ FER CRYIN' OUT LOUD!"

No sooner had Micky exploded with that outburst, did Mike stick his head out of the balcony door. "You call me?"

Micky raised the night cap from over his eyes, though most of what could be seen of his face was his rather large, toothy, fake smile. "Just…just checking on you! Wanted to make sure you were alright!" In his attempts to act "casual", he looked more awkward than ever. Peter just slouched and turned away, hoping that the tall girl wouldn't make eye contact, especially right now. Jumping off the balcony wasn't a wise option, but it was an option nonetheless.

Mike's eyebrows quirked; he eyed the pair of boys rather suspiciously. Something was afoot, he just couldn't put his finger on it. He gave up for the moment, shrugging his shoulders and letting his arms fall to his sides. "I'm feelin' a little more human," he said, yawning, "but I'm really tired." He propped himself against the door frame. He really was feeling that all-nighter coming back to get him. "Everythin' okay out here?" Another yawn, plus an unintentional eyeroll.

"Everything is ga-roovy," Micky beamed. "You finally stop shaking?"

"Yeah, I slow…slow'down a…lil' bit…" His voice trailed into incomprehensible mumbles. He began crumpling downward, still propped against the doorframe. The boys leapt to their feet to pick him back up. His head snapped up, though his eyes were still only half open. "I'm awake! I'm awake!"

Micky and Peter positioned themselves on either side of him yet again, this time escorting him back into the safety of the house. "Nah, it's naptime for you, Texas," Micky insisted. From the time they began dragging him from the back door till they successfully plopped him onto Peter's bed, he managed to doze off three times. Mike buried his face in the pillow; he was down for the count.

Micky sat on the end of the bed opposite of Peter's, nearly parking himself on top of Davy's feet. "Oi, d'you mind?"

"Sorry, man." The drummer repositioned himself on the end of the bed. "You should be awake already anyway."

Davy pushed himself up onto his elbows and glared at the girl in the other bed. "What's Sleeping Beauty doing down 'ere then?"

Peter tsked pitifully. "Mike was up all night and it just now caught up with her."

"Him, Peter. HIM." Micky swatted at the boy with the night cap. Peter was quick to snatch it away from him and place it back on his own head. "We can't get used to calling him a her unless I can't turn him back. I think he's getting a little desperate. He was up all night reading that stupid book and taking notes."

Davy was hopeful. "Did he have any luck?"

Micky looked increasingly guilty. The thought of the memory wipe potion came to mind. "No, not really."

Davy heaved a rather depressed sigh. "Shug's been a lot of fun, but I miss Mike."

"I know, man, me too." Micky took a glimpse at Peter, who somehow managed to look sad, yet confused at the same time.

Honestly, Peter wasn't sure how to feel.

Davy peered at the form collapsed in the bed across from him. He watched as the sleeping girl stretched, then rolled onto her stomach, letting out a small moan…followed by not-so-delicate snoring. "Certainly snores like a lady, doesn't he?" His laughs died down quickly. "What'll we do if he's really stuck like that?"

"We'll…adjust," Micky replied quietly. "But only if we have to. I want to check one more thing in that book first."

* * *

More notes: My alternate head canon SO wants to keep Mike cursed. I totally ship Shug!Mike/Peter. Oh, unrequited love. ;;_;;

Meanwhile… Hey, Micky, how about a heaping helping of guilt on top of your remorse?

Boys, I think it's time for a band meeting.


	12. Chapter 12

Author's Notes: The second half of this actually caught me off-guard. Not part of the original plan. April Conquest, you are precious. I want to get to know you better. ;;_;;

Also, there's a news headline in here that makes me giggle like a loon. (I was going for a HIX NIX STIX PIX vibe. If any of you have ever seen "Yankee Doodle Dandy" or heard about the original Variety headline, you'll get that reference.)

The Monkees' power of "Shared Imagination" is used in this one because of reasons. If Mike can be a girl, then shared imagination can also be a real thing. :P

Lord help, I hope I haven't disappointed with this installment.

* * *

Mike hauled the last laundry bag over his shoulder, squeezing through the front door. "That's everything, right?" He tossed the bag into the car with the other three.

"Yep," Micky confirmed from the doorway. He handed the girl a spare sock full of quarters. "This should cover it. If not, bring back what's left and we'll just air it out on the deck."

Mike wrinkled his nose at the thought. Micky snickered. "Get outta here already."

"I'll try to be back in a couple hours," Mike said, hopping into the driver's seat. "Depends on how many people are hoggin' the dryers." He backed out of the drive, then took off toward the laundromat.

"Is he gone?" Davy called from the living room.

Micky closed the front door. "He's gone. Laundry duty should take him a little while." He dragged a stool next to the coffee table, careful not to knock it off its cinder block feet. He pounded the table with a very worn gavel. "This band meeting shall now come to order!"

Suits materialized, as did a perfectly arranged board room. Peter found himself distracted by the ticker tape machine.

"As you know," Micky began, peering through pince nez glasses propped on his nose, "the firm of Michael, Shug and Nesmith has suffered a severe corporate shakeup and is restructuring."

"And what a structure it is," Davy laughed.

Micky slammed the gavel again. "I'll ask the board to please refrain from comments on the firm's character." His glasses popped off his nose and bounced onto the table. "The long-term solution is to return the firm to its original state within the specified time frame."

Davy picked at his nails. "How long is that?"

"About a week," Micky said with a sigh. "If we go by the book—You know, the part I didn't screw up? If we go by that, we should have Mike back to normal by this time next week."

Peter's head shot up from the seemingly endless stream of ticker tape paper. "Next week?"

"Which brings us to item two on the agenda…" Micky pointed the gavel at Peter. "While we realize that Peter and Thorkelson has a vested interest in the firm of Nesmith, we cannot allow a corporate merger."

Peter scrunched up his face, struggling to comprehend.

Davy shook a finger at the boy. "It means you can't have eyes for Mike anymore."

Peter was incredulous. He gaped at the drummer. "Micky!"

"What're you yelling at him for?" Davy went on the defensive. "I saw you snogging our reluctant princess the other night!"

Peter sank in his chair, ears pink with embarrassment. Great, everyone knew.

"This whole thing is one big, messy accident." Micky slouched in his seat, elbows on his knees. "And it's all my fault."

Peter twiddled at more ticker tape paper, almost braiding ends of it together. "Well, if Mike is stuck that way, it's not all bad, is it?"

Davy could only shake his head. "Have you _seen_ him? He's miserable."

"She was fine the other night—"

"He, Peter. HE." Micky sounded more and more exasperated with every gender correction. "He puts up a good front for us. That's just what he does. The fact that he was willing to be seen in a dress in public? That's _really_ taking one for the team."

"He's running out of sunshine, though," lamented Davy. "Not enough bright sides left. If your cure idea doesn't work out, I don't know what we'll do."

Micky was firm. "It'll work. It has to." He looked at Peter, who appeared to be in the middle of a good sulk. "I'm sorry, Pete, but this is one girl you can't keep."

"Hardly seems fair. You guys get to go out with nice girls all the time."

Davy let out a derisive snort. "Yeah, and they're actual GIRLS." He began chuckling. "Mike's got all the ladylike charm of a bulldozer." He noted Micky's smile, while Peter remained stone-faced. "'Ere now, You're taking this crush a lil' bit hard, aren't you?"

"Nothing like finding the girl of your dreams and then losing her to a pesky spell," Micky said quietly. He gave Peter a pat on the shoulder. "It's even worse when it's a best friend, huh?" The blonde nodded. Micky was almost sure he could see the cracks forming in the boy's heart.

Davy shifted impatiently in his seat. "So, what's the plan for cleaning up this mess?"

Micky pulled a notepad from his jacket pocket and shuffled through a few pages. He slapped it onto the table, putting a finger on a specific scribble. "This is the current moon phase cycle. …This is how it was almost a month ago when I…kinda accidentally cursed Mike. It's a simple cycle-to-cycle spell, but you have to turn it off the same way you turn it on. Kinda like a cosmic light switch."

Davy's thick eyebrows knitted together in frustration. "English, Micky!"

"It means we've got to recreate the exact circumstances under which the original spell took place." The brunet rolled his eyes at the continued confused looks he was getting. "We'll have a full moon that night and we just get Mike to drink a little bit of the original potion the same way he did last time. Just slip it in his soda."

Davy did a perfect double-take. "Wait, you still have that swill?"

"What, the soda or the potion?"

Peter's face lit up. "You kept the potion?"

"Well, yeah," Micky answered, rather matter-of-factly. "I thought I'd ask my friends at the university to test what's left to see if they could get an exact read on just what the heck I put in there. I need to write it down so this kinda thing doesn't happen again."

"It's not always wise to go off-script," Davy warned.

"The producers _did_ ask for a pretty girl. She's just not what any of us planned for." Micky grinned.

* * *

Mike dragged the laundry bags into the doorway of the laundromat, stumbling over them as he went through the door. All it took was one misplaced step and he was a tangled mess of legs and dirty shirts, piled in the floor. He collected himself, stuffing laundry back into bags, then pulling his hat down in the hope of obscuring his face somewhat. He pulled his bangs over to where they hid his entire forehead. He wasn't fond of the Beatle fringe look, but if it would draw attention away from that black eye…

"Shug, sweetie!"

Oh no. April.

The laundry girl practically skipped over to Mike, nearly tripping over the bags of clothes at his feet. It was the most graceful near-fall Mike had ever seen, to be quite honest.

"Davy told me you were in that scuffle the other night, but I had no idea," she said, breathless. She brushed Mike's bangs back into their proper place and observed the purple and blue mess around his right eye. "Oh, my poor little dear. No makeup or anything? You. Are so. Brave." She held the girl in a firm hug. Mike felt downright confounded, but he gave her a gentle hug back.

April composed herself, dabbing at her eyes with a lacy hanky. She playfully fluffed the pom pom on Mike's hat. "I see you're wearing your brother's hat. Have you heard from him lately? Does he know about…this?" She gestured at Mike's face. He could feel the hair on the back of his neck prickle.

"Ohh, I don't wanna worry him with that," the girl stammered. "He's got enough to fret over as it is." He pulled the hat off his head, crumpling it in his hands. It probably did look rather silly on him in his current state, but it made him feel close to normal again. It was simply part of what made him _Mike_. "Truth is… I kinda miss him." He knew it was a self-serving statement; he really missed being himself. He absently shoved the hat halfway into his pocket.

"Now now, sweetheart," April cooed while sliding an arm around Mike's shoulder. "You'll see him again soon. I've always heard that twins have very strong connections to one another, so I bet he misses you, too." She gave Mike a half-hug, then began sorting his various piles of laundry into a couple of different washers.

"You don't have to do that. I can handle it just fine—"

"No, you let me help. You've been through enough lately." She met him with a perfectly locked eye-to-eye gaze. It was unnerving in a way; Mike had forgotten that April was as tall as he was. No wonder she had glommed onto him so—In girl form, he was a rare creature. "I think it's just wonderful how you stood up to that awful man. That's a big step for us ladies." She leaned close to Mike's ear, giggling. "You're a regular heroine around here, Shug."

"Say what?"

April playfully bumped him in the arm. "The regulars here, they've all been talking about you since that article in Sunday's paper. I don't know where a nice little country girl like you learned to throw a punch like that, but it's knowledge worth passing on."

Mike was flummoxed. "Article? Wha-wha-what article? What about punches an' country girls an'—What?!" He propped himself against a washer. "When did I lose control of my life?"

April darted back to her office and returned with the entertainment section of the local paper. She pointed to the article in question: _CHIC TURNS TO EEK WHEN MONKEES ROMP. _Mike could actually hear the blood rushing from his face. He noted the section that April had underlined with a pencil.

"'Unfortunately for Chic editor Toby Willis, th' real fireworks began after local pop combo The Monkees had finished their set. It would appear that their newest member, Miss Shug Nesmith (the more stunning of th' Nesmith twins)…' What? Oh, give me a break. '…attracted some unwanted attention from local big shot music publisher and door lettering kingpin Irving Class of High Class Music. Mr. Class didn't count on bandmate Peter Tork to come to th' rescue, nor did he expect a bout of reverse chivalry when Southern Belle Shug landed a right cross to Class's nose.' Ugh…" Mike growled in misery. "'While charges may be pending against Mr. High Class, it sounds like Shug could be the newest poster child for th' women's liberation movement.'" Mike bowed his head and handed the paper back to April. "I don't think I wanna read another newspaper as long as I live."

"You silly girl, so modest," April said with a gentle smile. "You're so much like your brother." She raised an eyebrow at him. "Minus the bike-riding hobby."

Mike's face flushed. He had nearly forgotten about that idiotic stunt. Maybe Shug could sort of cover for him? "He gave those up a while ago. Too dangerous. Plus he couldn't keep up the payments." Okay, maybe it wasn't as much of a cover as he'd hoped.

"He had me worried," April mused. "I'd prefer it if he stayed safe." She continued sorting clothes rather diligently, as Mike stood by attempting to do the same. He was amazed at how his dainty hands suddenly became very ham-fisted and clumsy.

"You know…uh…you know you kinda broke his heart there for a lil' while." The words had slipped out before he had even realized it. Mike instinctively covered his mouth, as if it would do any good to capture words that had already escaped into the ether. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say any of that."

April paused her laundry sorting duties, gazing across the room at nothing. "You know, I still adore all of those boys," she said wistfully. "But I really should have spent less time boy-chasing and more time working on my doctor's thesis."

"Why can't your doctor—"

"Work on his own thesis?" April laughed. "You and Mike really are two of a kind. He made that same joke." She finished her sorting duties and prepped the clothes for washing. "I'm back on track, though. Got my Bachelor's and I'm working on my Master's."

Mike boggled his eyes, then gave a grin. "All this while runnin' a laundry? Nicely done!" He offered her a hand to shake. She seized it and pulled him into another hug. The girl was definitely a hugger, no denying that.

"Thank you, Shug!" April let the girl go once again. She took a moment to straighten her hair, as well as Mike's. "Sorry. It's just very exciting for me."

Mike finished sorting his pile of clothing, the last item being his friend's poncho made from a table cloth. It made the wheels in his head turn a little faster. "Did I tell you that Micky is kinda working on his Bachelor's, too?"

April's ears perked up. "Is he really?"

"Yeah," Mike went on. "He's always been big into science and chemistry, that kinda stuff. Maybe you two could study together sometime? I mean, you wouldn't believe what he can do with just a chemistry set…" He couldn't help rolling his eyes a little. He poked at the poncho sitting at the top of the washer. "He's still sweet on you. Have you even told him about that big, beautiful brain of yours?"

April sighed, focusing on the washer controls. "I asked him about a possible double-date sometime, but that's as far as I got before…ehrm…before the fight broke out."

"I'm really sorry 'bout that." He closed the other washer. He looked rather sheepish; he felt like a jackass.

"Oh, it's okay," April gave a kind smile. "Maybe I can try again." She clapped her hands together and spun around to face Mike again. "Are you doing anything this weekend? We could get together then."

"We've got a gig Friday night, but Saturday's okay if you maybe wanna catch a movie."

"Perfect!" April bounced on her heels and gave Mike a kiss on the cheek. "You're wonderful, Shug. Just wonderful! I'm so glad we're friends! A girl really needs someone to talk to sometimes." She glanced at the green wool hat halfway stuffed into Mike's jeans pocket. "Sugar, the next time you talk to your brother, would you please tell him I'm sorry? If he hates me, that's okay. I understand."

The girl made Mike's heart hurt. _ "If he hates me, that's okay._" No, it wasn't okay, especially if she had been carrying that sort of emotional baggage around since their sad attempt at dating. No wonder she had avoided speaking to him when he showed up for the boys' laundry day. Considering the circumstances, Mike couldn't fix this, but Shug could. "He'd never hate you, April. Trust me, he's not that kinda guy." April smiled; he caught the look of relief in her eyes.

Mike found himself strangely jealous of Shug. He held onto a small thread of hope that maybe April would still be his friend after he was cured.

* * *

More notes: Aww, Shug is inadvertently Micky's wingman. If you've been paying attention, you'll recall that Micky really is still head over heels about April. Actually getting to KNOW her could be a nice thing for him.

If Shug is going to disappear in only a few more days, she's got things she needs to take care of. This is part of that.

…OH NO SHE'S ON A TIME LORD'S FAREWELL TOUR


	13. Chapter 13

Author's Notes: UGH. Lucky number thirteen for Shug. My brain absolutely aches. Seriously.

EMOTIONS. SO MANY EMOTIONS.

This part makes me want to just hug poor Shug forever and ever. I am DESTROYED.

AND WE'RE STILL NOT AT THE END YET.

Teresa is back, albeit briefly. I still don't like her, sorry. Mike's really struggling now, too. Davy nailed it in that last part—He's running out of sunshine. :(

* * *

Upon Mike's return to the pad, he was immediately seized by both arms and dragged into the living area. Again, laundry went everywhere. "Hold on a second-What the—What're you guys DOIN'?" Micky had one arm, Davy held the other.

"We told you she'd be back, Teresa!" Micky said, face split into that overzealous faux grin.

Mike shook his head, getting his bangs out of his eyes. He locked gazes with Teresa, Toby Willis's stone-faced assistant. He groaned. "Why are you here this time? We've already done one photoshoot."

"We need a last minute follow-up to the article," Teresa said, once more checking things off on her clipboard.

Mike scrunched his face at the other girl. "You need a follow-up to th' follow-up?"

Teresa clicked her tongue in aggravation. "Considering what happened at the party, yes." She waved her hand at a figure standing in the kitchen. "Clark? You'll have to work with what you've got. We don't have time for makeup and…cleanup." She eyed the Texan girl rather coldly. Mike gritted his teeth, half smiling, half snarling.

"We're sorry for the last minute intrusion," Clark, the photographer, said kindly. He took Mike's hand and led him toward the bandstand. "You see, Miss…Nizmirth?"

"Nesmith," Mike sighed.

"Ah yes, of course… Anyway, Miss Willis asked if we could add a small blurb about how you were coping _after_ the party fiasco." The photog directed Mike to take a seat on the edge of one of the amplifiers, then held his hands up, as if to balance the girl by some invisible magic. "Where's the other one who took a hit?" He scanned the room until he found Peter. He waved him over. "I want you standing behind her… sort of…off to the side…" He held firmly to Peter's shoulders and scooted him to Mike's left. "Perfect!" He smiled, pleased with himself. He took a gander at the two of them through his camera's viewfinder. "I like it. Gritty. Realistic. Typical young—"

"If you say 'typical young Americans,' fella, we're gon' have words," Mike interrupted, non-plussed.

Clark was quick to change the subject. "How about we get a couple of you two, then some with the rest of the band?"

"Do you really want to take pictures of us right now?" Peter asked. He pointed at his eye, then gestured at Mike's. "Look at us."

"That's the point!" Clark tapped the boy on the end of the nose. "Miss Willis wants to show what you two had to endure as a result of someone's very poor judgment." He looked sympathetically at Mike. "I'm sorry if I'm speaking out of turn, but I hope you're pressing charges."

Mike crossed his arms as well as his legs and gave a sly smile. "Can we get copies of these for our court case?"

"Court case?" Peter stammered. "We—hic—have to go to—hic—court?"

Micky and Davy both grumbled and traded eyerolls. "And he's nervous," Davy sighed. "He was doing so well, too."

"Hic—Sorry. " Peter began hopping on one foot and mentally counting even numbers.

"It's not that scary, Shotgun," said Mike. "You'd just have to tell 'em what happened and they'll ask you a bunch of questions."

"It's like 'Perry Mason', Peter," Micky added.

Peter kept bouncing on one foot, hiccupping with every other breath.

"If he can't stop doing that," Clark implored, "we'll have to cancel this shoot and try again later."

Teresa snapped the clip of her board, thoroughly irritated. "We can't cancel, Clark. We're going to press tonight!" She stormed over to Peter and looked him straight in the eyes…or as much as she could considering he was a moving target. "Miss Willis removed a full-page ad for High Class Music because of you. You'd better get those supposed hiccups under control!"

Peter's hiccups doubled. He wanted to cry.

Mike couldn't stand it. He turned from his seat on the amp just enough to take hold of Peter's hand. "Stop hoppin' and breathe through your nose." The noise slowed, then at last it stopped. There was a collective sigh of relief in the room. "Feel better?" Peter nodded happily, then gave Mike a hug from behind, wrapping his arms around his shoulders. The lanky girl smiled and patted at the blonde's elbow. "Works every time."

"Thank you," Peter whimpered.

Clark looked befuddled. "What exactly…" He fiddled with his camera.

"If Peter gets really nervous about somethin', he gets th' hiccups," Mike explained. "If we can calm him down, they go away. It's either that or let him hop up an' down on one foot and count for half a day. He can't play bass or sing like that."

"This is all very sweet, but could we please get on with the photos?" Teresa was insistent. "We have a schedule to keep!"

Micky nudged Davy in the side. "Can't you sweet talk her and calm her down a little? Maybe turn on that patented Davy Jones charm of yours?"

Davy shrugged his shoulders. "I've tried. I think she's impervious to it."

Teresa waved her arms at the other two boys. "Alright, people, let's MOVE!" They clicked their heels and saluted, quickly taking their places at the bandstand.

Micky noticed that Peter was still hugging Mike, so he hopped onto the amp beside the girl and put his arms around her. Davy took note of Micky's lead and practically dogpiled on the other side, resting his head on Mike's chest.

"Guys, I can't breathe," Mike laughed, struggling to stay upright on the amp with his friends on top of him. He flicked at Davy's ear with his free hand.

"Oi!"

"Watch where you're puttin' your head, Tiny."

Teresa was ready to throw her clipboard at the lot of them. The quartet picked up on the vibe and straightened out, posing like polite school children on picture day. Teresa groaned. "See? Was that so difficult?"

Clark seemed pleased as he began packing away his camera gear. "Thank you all for doing this on such short notice," he said, shaking hands with each of the boys. When he came to Mike, he took the girl's hand and kissed it on the back. Peter was close behind, gaping at him sternly.

"AHEM."

Clark let go of Mike's hand, then smiled and backed away. He met with Micky to exchange contact information; the drummer knew that Mike was serious about using those photos as evidence. They were going to see this through somehow. Meanwhile, Teresa stood in the doorway, looking as angry as ever. She impatiently tapped her foot as she waited for her photographer to finish his business. She continually checked her watch. Davy was sure he counted twelve time-checks within less than two minutes.

Mike and Peter remained at the bandstand, observing the others. The Texan slid over, repositioning himself on one end of the amp. Peter took this as a cue to sit on the other end.

Mike cleared his throat. "So…what was that all about back there?"

"What back where?"

The girl raised an eyebrow. "That look you gave Clark when he had my hand."

"Hic."

"It's almost like you were stakin' a claim on me." He watched as Peter fidgeted and shrugged and made terrible faces all around that half-burping, half-squeaking sound.

"Well—hic—maybe I—hic—like you—hic." He took a moment to hold his breath. Mike gave up and held his hand again. Why that always worked, he still didn't know.

"It's not supposed to be permanent, Peter," Mike warned. "When this is over, how about I help you find a nice musically inclined gal?" He tried his best to give the boy a comforting smile.

Peter shook his head. "Not if I've found—hic—one already." Again, the hiccups slowed, then stopped, nerves under control once more. He did not, however, loosen his grip from the girl's hand.

_Only a few days left of this_, Mike reminded himself. He wasn't sure whose heart would suffer the most: Peter's, for losing the first girl to whom he honestly felt a connection or his own, for having to watch the poor boy fall apart because _he_ was that girl. He had never felt so emotionally sick in his life.

* * *

After nearly a month of dealing with a girl version of Mike in the beach house, things had taken on an oddly "normal" feeling. Normalcy didn't announce its arrival and it wasn't exactly quick about it, but there it was all the same, creeping around the edges of daily life and making everyone a bit more comfortable in spite of the gender-twisted circumstances.

Breakfast was the same.

Errands were the same.

Rehearsals were once again the same.

All of this unnerved Mike to no end. While he rather enjoyed the return to the mundane, it wasn't right. It was as far from it as he could get. It had the same effect on his nerves as listening to a song that was peppered with wrong notes. Things desperately needed to be back in tune.

The target date was Sunday night. There would once again be a full moon and Micky had already briefed him on the protocols for the potion. Mike had almost too much hope riding on this. What if the fix failed?

He couldn't think like that.

But that thought, that fear, stayed firmly attached to the back of his mind, niggling away at him when given even the slightest opportunity. There were plenty of opportunities: Every morning as he got dressed, every time he opened his mouth to speak, every time he had to look at poor, lovestruck Peter…

What if, Michael?

_What if?_

* * *

The group's Friday show at Pop Harper's went fairly well as far as the audience was concerned. This was another instance in which the boys earned a little extra scratch from a handful of generous customers. There were plenty of "thank you's" doled out, all of them sincere. Things were still a touch abnormal, but overall, not terrible. Bills were paid, work was good, and Pop even sent gracious plenty leftovers home with the quartet after closing time.

"I'm not sure there's much else we can do with spaghetti and noodles," mused Micky as he shoved a couple of brown bags into the fridge. "I'm kinda burnt out on macaroni omelettes."

Peter thought a moment. "Should I try meatball stew next time?"

"That actually doesn't sound too bad," Davy interjected. He carried his things into the pad, setting them near the window. As usual, the rehearsal bandstand reset would have to be carried out the next day.

Mike dutifully hauled in a couple of amplifiers, then made a repeat trip to the car for guitars. He didn't say anything; he simply moved items back into the house.

He _couldn't_ say anything. All night he had felt like he was going to choke. His face had been somewhat flushed most of the evening and when called upon to sing, it had taken everything he had to even make the notes come out. His hands were shaky, though thankfully not on the level of half-a-tin-of-coffee shaky, and while it seemed like no one else noticed his couple of flubbed guitar solos, the very idea gutted him. He was a perfectionist. This was sub-par.

He propped the instruments against the step-up at the bay window, then without so much as a nod or a wink or even a tired grunt, he stomped up the metal spiral stairs to the bedroom he shared with Micky. He pushed the door closed, resulting in a loud slam that echoed through the entirety of the beach house.

The three boys downstairs were suddenly very quiet.

"Is he alright?" Davy asked, eyes firmly directed at the top of the stairs.

"He seemed a little 'off' tonight," Micky said, giving his curly head a shake. "He's got a lot on his mind. I can tell."

Davy stopped staring at the upstairs landing and redirected his attention to his friends on the ground floor. "Shouldn't he be happy? He's nearly made it through this mess to where he can change back."

"He's nervous about it." Micky looked somewhat disheartened. "It was a failure to begin with and now he's got everything riding on my ineptitude."

"What do you mean, 'ineptitude'?" Davy barked. "That's amazing what you did. You could probably write your thesis on that." He thumbed over his shoulder toward the second floor.

Micky let go a derisive snort. "I don't think the science community would appreciate a paper based on magic, Davy." He practically fell into one of the kitchen chairs, then kicked it onto its back legs. "It's bad enough that the guys at the university lab grilled me about eye of newt when I took that stuff in to have it analyzed."

"What did you tell them?" Peter asked.

"There's a little store just off Sunset where you can find that stuff," Micky replied casually, "though I may have confused those with a jar of capers."

"Capers?!" Davy and Peter chorused.

Micky put his chair level on the floor again. "Could explain a few things."

"Someone should talk to her," Peter said, looking upstairs. "She's unhappy."

"Capital idea!" Micky jumped out of his chair and began pushing Peter toward the staircase. Davy was quick to join in. The blonde tried keeping his feet flat against the floor, which only resulted in leaving heel marks on the tile.

"Wait, why me?"

"Why not?" Davy shot back with a snicker. "Besides, that's your girlfriend up there."

"I don't think she's comfortable with that idea, David." Peter continued to protest, trying to turn around while the other two boys had their arms firmly around him. "What if she's mad? She'll yell at me."

"Just make that puppy face you always do and you'll be fine!" Micky insisted.

"But—"

Micky and Davy released the bassist, who suddenly found himself in front of the upstairs bedroom door. "Good luck!" they both cheered before running down the stairs again. Peter could only groan and roll his eyes. Brooding Mike was not a good thing to be around, no matter what side of the chromosome map he was on currently.

Peter cautiously stuck his head in the doorway. "Hey, Mike? Is everything okay up here?"

The reply came as a deep, sad sigh. Mike was on his back on his bed, picking fuzz off his hat. It was still verboten as a wardrobe item as long as he was stuck as Shug.

"The guys wanted me to make sure you were alright… You know, since you didn't really say much once we got home."

No answer.

"Or after the show."

Still no answer.

"Or even _during_ the show."

The girl stayed stone silent, instead focusing on worn bits of yarn fuzz that were still loosely stuck to the hat's pom-pom.

"Michael, I know you're not yourself, but right now you're _really_ not yourself. You're worrying me," Peter begged.

"I've got less'n two days of this left," Mike said quietly, "and I'm kinda scared."

Peter considered the word, how strange it sounded coming out of Mike's mouth. In his eyes, Mike was always sensible, smart, brave… How could he possibly be scared of anything? Even as Shug, he was nothing less than fearless. The black eye he was sporting might be considered an impressive purple badge. "You're the bravest person I know. How could you be scared?"

"What if it doesn't work? What if I can't change back?" There. He finally verbalized it. It didn't make him feel any better, that was for certain. The fear just hung in the air like a gooey, black cloud. He pushed himself up to a sitting position in hopes that the very thought wouldn't smother him.

"Micky can fix it," Peter said, trying his best to be encouraging. "He's got everything planned out—"

"_Micky_ is why I'm like this," Mike groused. "God love 'im, he means well, but if he'd just take five minutes to settle down an' focus…" He sighed again, putting his head in his hands. "I shouldn't take it out on him. He was tryin' to help me." He looked up at Peter. "It's just…weird bein' like this."

"What happens if we can't fix you?"

"I don't know." Mike stood, pacing a small path beside his bed. "I've got no clue what I'd tell mah family… Or anyone else for that matter!" His breath hitched suddenly. "Basically, it means my life is over." He paused, arms half folded, one hand on his face, trying in vain to regain his composure. He failed miserably at it, sniffling into his palm. His head shot up suddenly as he wiped at his eyes—They were wet. "Wha? What, am I... Am I cryin'? Really?" The more he tried to stop, the worse it became. "I DON'T CRY!"

Peter took one step closer, arms outstretched. "Mike, it's okay—"

"You don't say a word about this! Not one word!" he snapped. He continued sobbing. He scrubbed at his face and even began pulling his hair—Anything to make his eyes stop leaking liquid embarrassment. He was supposed to be the leader, the sensible one, and here he was, blubbering nonstop. He was a confused, angry, emotional mess. "Is this what a nervous breakdown feels like?" he sniffed. "'Cause I feel pretty broken right now." He slouched on the edge of the bed.

The blonde boy took a seat next to his friend and put an arm around him. The distressed girl ended up with her face on Peter's shoulder, crying until there was nothing left and her eyes felt raw.

Up until then, Peter had hoped the reversal might fail. Seeing Mike in such a sorry state made him feel a selfish lout.

"We'll fix you, Michael."

* * *

More notes: I WANT TO CRY RIGHT NOW

WRITING SHOULD NOT DO THIS TO ME

MIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIKE


	14. Chapter 14

Author's Notes: You know what? Mike actually has a great little support network in his friends.

* * *

When Mike woke up Saturday, he wasn't sure of the time. He didn't bother with the alarm clock, outside of shoving it into the top drawer of his night stand. He threw his robe on over his pajamas, per set protocol of the pad, and trudged downstairs.

"Good morning, starshine!" Micky sang from the kitchen table. "It's not too late for breakfast if you want any." He plated up a couple of servings of what looked like a sad attempt at a meatball omelette and slid them onto the table.

Mike scratched at his head, ruffling his hair. He looked a mess. His face was still slightly puffy; his eyes were red from all the crying he had done the previous night. He sank into the chair opposite Micky and sort of stared into space.

"Mike?" Micky waved his hands in front of the girl's face. "Mike, you getting any reception in there?"

Mike blinked and shook his head, waking from his daze. "Huh? Oh hey, Mick. Mornin'." He wiped the sleep from the corners of his eyes. He was surprised at how sore they were.

"Rough night?" Micky sat a cup of coffee in front of the girl. He knew Mike had been crying; it was easy to see, but he wasn't about to say anything to him about it. After being shoved into dresses, made up, flirted with, and assaulted, he certainly deserved to hang onto what few strands of pride he had left. "I didn't sleep so hot, either."

Mike barely sipped at the mug, eyes rolling up to meet Micky's. The brunet gave a nod and a smile. It was one of their shared, wordless signals. _Everything will be okay._ Mike returned the smile, albeit weakly.

"Think you'll feel any better by the time we hit the movies tonight?"

Mike nearly choked on his coffee. He had completely forgotten about the date he had managed to arrange between Micky and April. The only caveat was that it had to be a double date. He wasn't sure he was in the mood. "Ehh…"

"Technically, it's Shug's last night here," Micky said, shoving a bite of omelette in his mouth. "I already talked to April and she's really kind of upset that her new friend is leaving."

Mike's expression fell again, though it didn't have far to go. "She's a nice gal. Don't wanna see her upset." He slouched in his chair and poked at his breakfast with a fork.

"Then come with us tonight," Micky insisted. "It's just a bunch of friends going out for a movie." He noted Mike's worried expression. "You need something to clear your head for a while. Take your mind off…things."

"I guess I'll go," the girl said, grumbling. "I'm th' one who suggested it in th' first place." Mike looked around the pad. Something was off. It was too quiet. "Where's Davy and Peter?"

Micky quickly swallowed the rest of his breakfast before replying. "Errands. We heard that 'our' magazine comes out today, so they were gonna pick one up on the way back." He tapped at Mike's plate with his fork. "Hey, you. Eat. You're not doing yourself any favors by going on a hunger strike." Mike begrudgingly gnawed at a piece of omelette. It wasn't bad, he just wasn't terribly hungry. His nerves were too busy taking up the space in his stomach.

The front door flew open, with Davy in front of Peter, Davy's nose deep in a magazine. Peter stumbled behind him, arms full of grocery bags. When Davy made a sudden stop, it was all Peter could do to keep from running over him and losing a week's worth of food. "Davy, next time, could you please signal your stops?"

"No fair tailgating," the Englishman replied with a sneer. He darted to the kitchen, waving his magazine. "Here we are! Just like Toby promised!" He spread the publication onto the tabletop, flattening the magazine's spine so everyone could see. "It's actually not that bad this time. I think they got it right."

Mike made a rather unhappy face. "I'm afraid to read it. It's still not gonna be accurate."

Davy cocked his head sideways, curiously. "How so?"

The Texan opened his robe and gestured at his quite feminine figure. "…Or did you forget?" He straightened his T-shirt and closed his robe again.

"As long as they don't say we eat pheasant and play chamber music, I am plenty fine with that," Micky said. He found his round-framed glasses and quickly scanned the lines of copy for the main article. "Let's see… 'Fashion moguls, blah-blah-blah, Chic representatives, blah-blah-blah…' Here we are! 'Entertainment was provided by local pop combo, The Monkees, who did not disappoint. With their unique sound and quirky banter, they made sure everyone in attendance had loads of fun.' Well, it beats the last thing they wrote about us."

"It's mostly pictures, isn't it?" Peter interjected. "It _is_ a fashion magazine. Not a lot of words."

Davy nodded. "He's right, y'know." He pointed at one of the photos in the spread of party-goers and industry big-wigs. There was a nice center stage shot of their performance. "There we are!" He nudged Mike in the arm. "Look at that, I'd hardly know that was you."

Micky and Peter leaned in to study the picture. Micky whistled, impressed. "Somebody here is even prettier than Davy." Peter laughed. Mike actually giggled a little.

"Watch it, you." Davy held up a fist.

"Cool it, Dynamite," Mike said with a grin, "or I'll make you two take it outside."

Micky began flipping through the remainder of the magazine. "Where's the other one? The one about us?" His eyes locked onto a picture with their bay window in the background. "Hah! Okay, here we go… 'As you'll remember, our past Typical Young American Award winners, Mike Nesmith, Micky Dolenz, Peter Tork and Davy Jones—collectively known as The Monkees—received some incorrect press from our publication. With this article, we intend to right that wrong.'" He paused, nodding in approval. "I'm on board with this thing already."

Davy continued reading. "'On the outside, you may see four carefree boys with few worries, but if you scratch just beneath the surface of that protective, happy bubble, you'll find four very hard-working friends, doing their best to make ends meet while following their dreams'." He blinked at the magazine a moment, surprised. "This is a far cry from the last one. Looks like we got that proper story after all!"

"Getting rid of Madame and Rob Roy was probably the best decision they could have made," said Micky. "Finally, some honesty in journalism." He adjusted his specs and scanned further down the page. "Here's the part about Shug and Peter's run-in with Irving Class-less. I'm surprised they used that picture, honestly."

Mike's curiosity was piqued. "Which one?" Micky pointed it out. It wasn't the "gritty, realistic" pose that Clark the photog had arranged. Rather, it was all four of them in that ridiculous hug-pile, laughing. Truthfully, that candid shot was more realistic than anything Clark could have ever arranged. Mike could almost see himself, his old self, in the middle of that affectionate huddle, but the whole thing was so surreal. He knew the eyes, but everything else was so wrong.

Davy took the magazine from Micky, anxious to see the rest of the publication. "Anything else good in 'ere?" He gave a wry smile. "Well, 'ello 'ello 'ello Miss Sugar Nesmith… 'featured on page 42'. Ooooo!"

Mike sank in his chair and drew his robe tightly around himself. He went as far as to pull it almost entirely over his head. Micky yanked the terrycloth shroud from around his friend's face. "Cut that out!"

"'Meet Sugar Nesmith, Southern Belle, sweet as pie and as strong-willed as her twin brother, Mike,'" Davy read, snickering. "'When group leader Mike had to make an emergency trip home to Texas, Sugar stepped in to help the band in his absence. This only goes to show that The Monkees are more than just a well-rounded group of friends; they are a small family.'" His amused tittering ceased, giving way to a rather thoughtful smirk. "'Sugar, or Shug as she prefers to be called, may come across as a little abrasive at first, but she's a talented, caring girl who only wants the best for her friends and will stand up for any of them, the same way they stand up for her, as evidenced by the events that took place at the Chez Menu during our event. We at Chic hope that upon Mike's return, the boys will let Shug stay with them a while longer.' …Wow." Davy put the magazine back onto the table. "They're going to be terribly disappointed, aren't they?"

Micky shrugged. "It is what it is. Not much we can do about it."

Curious, Mike lowered the robe from around the base of his ears and had a look at the feature on "Shug". While there were a couple of smaller pictures of him posed either with the rest of the group or solo, the one the editors chose for a full-page feature was another candid shot about which he never knew. He remembered being so frustrated with Teresa and the small army of people invading his space that day, that during a lull in the photo shoot, he perched on his amp and had begun kanoodling out a guitar riff. Apparently, one of the photogs in the crew thought it was a prime shot: A tall, thin girl in a fashionable dress, strumming at a 12-string and halfway backlit by the bay window. His insides had to have twisted into every knot imaginable. It truly was like being two different people.

"Hey now." Davy bumped Mike in the arm, waking him from his daze. "Don't look like that. Shug's getting a nice send-off."

"It's not that," Mike said lowly. "It's just that… What if she never leaves?"

"Don't think like that, man." Micky propped his glasses on his head. "We've got this."

"And whatever happens, we're here," Peter added.

Davy leaned against the table. "You're stuck with us either way, y'know."

Mike's stomach was still in knots, but his heart didn't ache as badly. "_The Monkees are more than just a well-rounded group of friends; they are a small family." _ The magazine had gotten it right this time.

* * *

Sunday dragged on so slowly, it felt like three days passed in the span of one. Mike spent most of the day pacing the floor or tuning and retuning his guitars, plus Peter's bass and banjo. He checked the tires and oil on the GTO at least five times. He also managed to fix the leaky shower head in the bathroom and changed six lightbulbs inside the house.

"Why can't time move any faster?!" He threw his hat on the floor and stomped out to the deck.

Davy and Micky watched him from the living area. Micky had returned to his chemistry set, while Davy looked on, making notes of his progress.

"He's under a lot of stress, isn't he?" Davy inquired.

"You have no idea." Micky held a small glass tube over the Bunsen burner. The solution inside began to bubble and stink. "And we have reactivation."

Davy began gagging. "Oh, ugh… I forgot how dreadful that stuff smelled. And you expect Mike to drink it?"

"It only takes a couple of drops to work." Micky checked his notes, then glanced at his watch. "Synchronize watches! Annnnd NOW." He put the tube in a clamp above the burner and made his way to the bay window. "Sunset initiated." He tapped on one of the glass panes until Mike noticed him. Micky pointed at his watch, then at the reddening sky. Mike nodded in understanding and retreated to the house.

"Okay… Ready when you are, Mick."

Davy was standing by with a soda in hand. He passed it to Micky, who carefully counted three drops of the disgusting solution as they went into the fizzy liquid. Micky then gave it to Mike. "Bottoms up, Texas."

"Here's to normalcy." Mike was almost breathless with nerves. He downed the bottle's contents. Now it was up to whatever strange powers existed in the universe.

An hour passed. He didn't feel any different.

Three hours. He still felt the same.

At the midnight mark, he changed into his pajamas. He had just walked back onto the upstairs landing when Micky waved at him from the ground floor.

"It happened overnight last time, Mike," the brunet was quick to point out. "You can't give up yet!"

"I know," he sighed. "But I'm tired." It was no lie. He really was tired. Not just physically, but emotionally and mentally exhausted. "Night. Keep your fingers crossed." Micky held up both hands, his fingers all knotted around one another.

Mike crawled into bed, curling into a human ball of trepidation.

"Your move, cosmos."

* * *

Mike couldn't remember what he had dreamed the night of the initial change. He knew it was awful and tiring, on the level of a nightmare. During those first few hours after that weird transformation, his entire body ached so much, he could barely stand it. While he had no solid memories of that particular dream's events, the sudden pain now in his head and back was a firm reminder that it had been far from pleasant. He felt as though he was being flayed and gutted. It was unbearable.

He screamed, immediately sitting up, eyes wide open. It took him a moment to realize he was safe at home and no one was splitting his insides apart. His heart was still pounding hard enough that his chest hurt. He put his hand over it, as he tried to catch his breath.

Something had changed. His chest was _flat_. His heart rate jumped again. He felt over his face: That dainty nose had given way to something more masculine and his jaw had broadened. The sides of his face were fuzzy. "Hah!" Even his laugh sounded normal once more. He had nearly forgotten what his actual voice sounded like. "I'm back! I'm ME again!" He stood up and hopped around. He wanted to make sure he was fully awake and not still stuck in a dream.

"Mike," Micky groaned, his voice mostly muffled by blankets, "be quiet and go back to bed."

The boy wanted to pelt his friend in the face with a pillow, just out of sheer joy. Maybe he would just pounce on him instead and give him a good scare.

"Why didn't it work?" Another voice whimpered from the room. Mike's ears perked up. He could pinpoint a couple of miserable-sounding sighs. They were higher-pitched with a weird familiarity about them. "Why am I still like this?"

There was enough light coming through the window that a third figure was visible in the room. The outline was female. She huddled in the floor, back facing the beds, near tears. Mike's first instinct was to pull the blanket off his bed and wrap it around her. His second instinct was to suppress the panic that was building inside of him.

"It didn't work, Micky," the girl said lowly. The disappointment was thick in her voice. "You tried, but it didn't work."

Mike knelt in front of her, securing the blanket around her. He swallowed his nerves and put his hands on her shoulders. "I'm not Micky."

The girl's eyes met his. They frantically searched over Mike's every feature. She put a hand to his face, then her own, feeling over a half-healed black eye. "Oh God."

"It's okay—"

"Oh God!" Her breathing sped up so that she was near hyperventilation.

"Easy now, easy! Just calm down…" Mike held her close. It was hard to offer comfort when he wanted to run from the room screaming himself, but this poor girl needed help. "Where did you come from?"

She moved back slightly, lifting Mike's hair out of his face, then tugged at his sideburns. She just kept shaking her head. "This isn't how it was s'posed to go," she whimpered. "I'm s'posed to be _you._"

* * *

More notes: Welcome to the world, Sugar.

Mike's protective instincts are the first to kick in. Aww Mike. 3 Welcome back, sir.


	15. Chapter 15

Author's Notes: SWEET TAPDANCING JEEBUS I THINK I GOT IT. And now hopefully the story can move on. I HOPE THIS DOESN'T SUCK TOO MUCH

You don't ignore the fact that you suddenly have a gender-opposite twin. But you are mindful of your manners. Atta boy, Mike. Atta boy. :)

Also, inspiration from ChaosKirin because EEEEEEE 3

* * *

It was an impromptu 3:00 AM band meeting. The boys were gathered in the living room, all still clad in their pajamas, save for Mike, who had given the new girl the shirt off his back. The raven-haired female huddled on the couch, nursing a cup of tea. She still had Mike's blanket draped around her. He sat next to her, though he kept a cautious distance from her.

Davy finally broke the awkward silence. "How did we end up with _two_ Mikes?"

"We're just lucky that way, Tiny," Mike groused.

"This wasn't a listed side effect of the potion," Micky replied, flipping through his notes. "You're supposed to be back to normal and that's it." He consulted the book.

"Well, I'm as normal as I can be," Mike said, gesturing toward himself, "but what about…" He exchanged gazes with the girl beside him. "What about…her?" He noticed her expression sink. He was quick to place a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "I just wanna know where you came from, that's all."

"I live here. I've _lived_ here for years."

Four sets of eyes locked onto her, like each of the boys wanted to say something, but were too afraid. Her shoulders drooped. She turned back to her tea.

"Maybe she's a dupe," Micky announced, holding the spell book aloft. "I read somewhere in here that they can sometimes happen either when spells go wrong or if the 'enchanted' subject—That's you, Mike—experiences extreme emotions while all this crazy magical stuff is happening." He put the book back onto the table, squashing piles of old steno paper.

Mike put a hand to his forehead. "None of this should surprise me anymore."

"What are we supposed to do with her?" Davy asked. "Can we send her back?"

"What?!" Mike looked sort of insulted, as did the girl. "Whaddya… Send her back? She's not a sweater!"

The girl's eyes widened suddenly. "I wish y'all'd stop talkin' about me like I'm not even in th' room!"

Davy eyes were downcast, shamefully. "Sorry, Mike. Erhm…Other Mike?" He waved his arms at the girl. "What do we even call you?!"

Peter kept turning his head sideways, first studying Mike's female twin, then Mike himself. Trying to process the sudden existence of another version of his best friend was both confusing and rather tiring. "I need to sit down." He excused himself to the kitchen.

The twins looked at each other again. Embarrassed, they directed their eyes elsewhere. Micky wandered to the couch, taking a closer gander at girl-Mike, which meant he was almost nose-to-nose with her. "Mike, your worrying got you a doppelganger. She's even got your freckles!"

Mike pinched at the bridge of his nose, trying to let this bizarre news sink in. "So, because I was so concerned about bein' stuck as a girl…"

"You split a little piece of yourself off and gave it legs," Micky concluded, backing away from the boy's double. "She's an extension of you, Mike. That means everything that's ever been in that fuzzy wool-hatted head of yours is inside hers. And I mean everything."

The Nesmith twins exchanged worried glances. Mike slouched, propping his elbows on his knees. "Micky, I think we need t'burn that book of yours. I can't take much more of this."

"How do ya' think I feel?" The girl whimpered, eyes firmly positioned on Mike. The stare she gave him wasn't cold or accusing, but really more questioning. Mike knew that look. He had seen it in the mirror every day for the past month. It was uncertainty and fear.

"I know _exactly_ how you feel." It was strange, like he was talking to himself, but then again not. He didn't know if he should hug her or pat her on the back or anything, really.

She put her head in her hands. "I don't even know who I am or who I'm s'posed to be." She heaved a sigh. It sounded like her new waking reality was sinking heavily onto her shoulders. "I've got twenty-some-odd years of bein' _Mike_ in my head." She took a quick glance at the lanky guitarist next to her, then at herself. "Clearly, that's not who I am."

Mike stood and paced a small path near the couch. He ran his hands through his hair; he yanked at it along the nape of his neck. "I'm sorry. I really am." He crouched in front of the girl. "I didn't know this would happen, that…that…_you_ would happen."

Her stare was so intense, it shook him to the core. "Who am I, Mike? I mean, really… Who am I?"

It was a question he couldn't properly answer, at least not right away. He gave her a weak smile.

"We'll figure it out." Mike rose to his feet, then offered a hand to his new doppelganger, pulling her up. He escorted her back toward the stairs. "C'mon, let's get you settled in." The twin's knees suddenly buckled. Mike caught her under the arms. "Whoa, whoa—You okay?"

Like a flash, Peter was at the girl's other side, helping to steady her. "Existing must be hard work."

"It's that sudden realization I'm not who I thought I was," she said lowly, "but then again, I still am." She paused, again giving Mike a pitiful, baffled glance. "Is this what an outta-body experience feels like?"

The boys walked her back to the couch and gently eased her onto it. She seemed exhausted already. Mike hollered back at Micky, who had resumed his note-taking on the girl. "Is this another unlisted side effect?"

"Looks that way," Micky answered, frantically thumbing through the spell book. "Although I'd guess that poofing into being out of nowhere would make anyone tired, even a spare you."

Davy pointed at the clock over the door. "I hate to spoil the party, but it's still too early for any of us. I'm going back to bed for a couple hours."

Micky sighed in resignation and retreated from his table full of mad science. "You're right, babe. I need some more sleep if I want a chance at solving this problem."

"What problem?" Mike and Peter chimed together. They stood there, stunned at each other. They both looked down at the extra Nesmith, who was fatigued beyond all reason. She had somehow managed to nod off.

Peter fetched his pillow and blanket from the downstairs bedroom, throwing them onto the floor near the couch.

"And jus' whadda you think you're doin', Shotgun?" Mike inquired, hands on his hips.

"She needs somebody to stay with her," Peter defended. "You know, just in case something happens."

Mike quirked his eyebrows at the blonde, considering this. He retrieved his blanket from its pile on the floor and tucked it around the girl dozing on the couch. He then quietly went to the bandstand and yanked the sheet off Micky's drum kit. He grabbed a spare cushion from one of the other mismatched chairs in the room and set up camp next to Peter. "Alright, she's got two of us watchin' her now."

Peter cocooned himself in his blanket, eyes blankly aimed at the missing plaster in the ceiling. "Mike?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you think she's scared?"

Mike rolled onto his side; he propped his head up. "Deep down? She's terrified, Pete."

"How can you be so sure about that?" Peter turned to face his friend.

"Think about havin' your whole identity uprooted an' taken away. I lived it." The Texan rolled onto his opposite side, drawing the sheet around himself. He forced his eyes shut. "I'm cured, but this is a whole new nightmare for her."

* * *

In the handful of days that followed, the boys did their best to adapt to yet another change in their lives. On one hand, they had to readjust to Mike in his original male form, a change he gladly welcomed, though even he had to get accustomed to it again.

On the other hand, there was the odd presence of Mike's female double, which had presented more than a few problems: Arguments over whose clothes were whose, the constant muddle over which Mike the other boys were addressing half the time, and worst of all for her, the exclusion of the new Nesmith twin from rehearsals. She found herself spending more and more time alone, simply to cut down on the confusion.

Peter spotted her on the deck, parked in one of the old patio chairs, feet against the balcony wall. She had a small notebook in her lap, though it appeared most of the page was filled with scribbles and doodles. He pulled up a chair beside her. "You…um…You feel like talking?"

The girl pulled her feet down from the half-wall. "I feel like a fifth wheel." She avoided eye contact, instead choosing to focus on the worn wood of the deck floor itself. "I shouldn't even be here."

"But you are," Peter replied kindly, "and you should make the best of it." He nudged her arm. He crouched over enough to see her face; he noticed that her eyes were red. He knew precisely why. "Don't close yourself off from us, Mike."

"Sugar."

"What?"

"Just… I… My name is Sugar." She shifted, crossing her arms. Upon closer examination, Peter could see that among the scribbles in the girl's notebook were multiple instances of Mike's and her names. Mike's name had been crossed out each time, with "NO NO NO" lining the margins. Such little ink blots might have been insignificant to anyone else outside their little circle. Peter recalled some of Mike's past comments about identity and purpose—How devastating it was to feel you had neither.

"Okay... Sugar." He tried his best to sound upbeat. It was near impossible, given the gravity of the situation. "You've got us worried."

She remained quiet.

"He said not to say anything, but even Mike is worried about you." Peter glimpsed over his shoulder, almost making sure Mike couldn't hear him through the window.

"What am I s'posed to do with my life now? I'm not _him_ anymore."

"No one expects you to be," Peter said, "and that's okay." He slid an arm over her shoulder. "I know it's still…weird for you."

"This girl thing ain't exactly what I signed up for." Shug leaned her head back on his arm, perfectly rested in the crook of his elbow. "But I guess it's what I'm stuck with."

Peter beamed. "You've done pretty well with it so far. That's a bright side, right?"

The girl shrugged. "I dunno. There's plenty that still feels…awkward." The realization that she had her head cuddled against Peter's arm seemed to hit her like an electric shock. She sat up suddenly, her face flushed. "Sorry, Pete, I just—I—Everythin's backwards to what I'm used to."

The blonde drew back his arm, cupping his hands together. He twiddled his thumbs errantly. Things hadn't felt this awkward since…

…Since after the Chic party.

He took a deep breath, hoping he could steady his nerves. "I know things are really weird for you right now. And it's no secret that I like you…" He caught the alarm in the girl's eyes. "Please don't look at me like that, Sugar. You make my heart hurt."

The girl shook her head. The color in her face seemed to deepen. "I'm not sure I'm ready for that kinda change yet."

Peter was hopeful. "Maybe not now, but when you are, I'll be here." He stood, holding out his hand. "Now, come on back inside. We miss having you around."

She took hold of the boy's hand and he pulled her to her feet. "It's gonna be a long, strange road," Shug sighed.

Peter laughed. "So?"

Sugar had to admire his positivity. He was unflappable, that boy. That dimpled grin of his gave her a bit more hope that maybe things really would be okay. She steeled herself, nearing his face. "I guess I owe you this one."

She didn't count on Peter's mischievous side to intervene. He turned his head at precisely the right moment and what was intended to be a kiss on the cheek ended up a full-on smooch on the lips.

And…it wasn't bad.

"HOLD IT! WAIT A MINUTE! STOP RIGHT THERE!" Mike stormed onto the deck and grabbed Sugar by the arm, separating her from Peter. He glared at her, angry; he felt his frown start to slip the longer he looked at that familiar, half-smirking face. "You're gonna be nothin' but trouble, huh?"

"I learned from the best," she said through a well-placed grin. She tugged at one of his sideburns, then turned toward the house. Peter followed close behind.

Mike's smile quickly faded as he put an arm in front of Peter, blocking him from entry. "As for you…"

Peter felt the hair on his neck prickle. "How long were you watching us?"

"Long enough." He narrowed his eyes at the boy. "You watch it. That's my little sister."

* * *

MOAR NOTES: Davy, you shut your sass face about sending Shug back. We're keeping her. :P

Shug/Peter is now officially canon in my personal Monkeeverse (though we all saw it coming).

AND NOW SILLY SHENANIGANS CAN RETURN TO THE PAD

HUZZAH


	16. Chapter 16

Author's notes: SWEET MERCY SIXTEEN PARTS NOW? Man, I don't even know anymore. Anyway… Mike, you need to learn to share. Sugar, you need to curb your temper a little. (She also tends to forget her own strength too, I notice.)

* * *

Even after her talk with Peter, Sugar remained just on the periphery of the boys' lives. She continued to keep to herself, although now she would at least stay in the same room with them most of the time. She was still sidelined from the band. Sitting through rehearsals was akin to torture; to watch Mike, Micky, Peter and Davy carry on as though nothing was different made her sick. She had stayed home during every gig the group had scheduled. Before the last one, Davy made a point of inviting her along. She kindly thanked him, then declined. What was the use? She didn't fit.

Between two weeks of successful shows and completely reorganizing living arrangements in the beach house, Mike was exhausted. Things were mostly back to normal—his preferred "normal"—and it was a welcome feeling in his life. However, there remained that one sour note in the background. He watched as Sugar persisted in separating herself from the group. Even worse, he knew he was to blame. They continued to fight over everything—clothes, guitars, the GTO, identity—and Mike was firm in his position.

_"I am Mike Nesmith. You are not. Can't you get that through your head?"_

As the boys completed another practice session, Mike noticed Sugar huddled on the couch, her back to them all. His stomach was relentless, twisting into knots. He was sure it was working on a cat's cradle by now. He watched her a moment, arms folded, staring blankly at nothing. She had no reaction, showed no emotion, she just sat there. He hated admitting that she was so perfectly _him_.

Mike's conscience continued to gnaw at his gut through the night. He slept fitfully, mind replaying bits of his month spent upside-down, a million miles from normal. He finally gave up on sleep, sitting up and turning on the bedside light.

"Hey Shug?" He glanced at Micky's bed, which Sugar had been given for the time being. It was empty. That miserable feeling in his stomach persisted.

Mike growled at himself and headed downstairs. He could at least locate some aspirin for his head. Maybe that would help.

He had just reached the top couple of stairs when he heard a voice quietly singing. Sugar was seated in one of the mismatched chairs near the coffee table, gently strumming Mike's Gretsch. He paused a moment, listening to a voice that had been his for a short while. It was like hearing with new ears; she sounded the same as he remembered, but somehow different.

It was surreal.

It was _pretty_. No wonder Micky had fussed at him back at the Chez Menu.

He was careful descending the staircase, taking slow, deliberate steps so he wouldn't disturb her. As he continued to listen to the girl, he realized she was singing a song that had mostly resided in his head. Maybe he had gone over it once or twice privately, but had not yet presented it to the group. He didn't think it was ready. Yet, Sugar was singing it like she had always known it.

Shared memories, Mike had to remind himself. He stood behind her, quietly edging closer.

Shug finished, hands patting the guitar's strings to quiet them. She sighed. "Hi Mike."

"How did you know I was back here?"

"Easy." She pointed to the floor. "Your shadow. I recognize th' shape of your head, even without the lil' pom pom on top."

Mike hooked his toes around the edge of the ottoman and slid it next to Sugar's chair. He took a seat as she plucked a few errant notes on the guitar. "Is this why you've been sleepin' past noon?"

The girl shrugged. "I dunno. Maybe." She stopped playing and wrapped her hands around the top curves of the guitar, almost hugging it. "I've kinda missed ol' Blondie."

Mike felt his insides twist. "Yeah, uh, about that…"

"Don't worry, I'll put her back," Shug groaned. "I always do." She began to take the guitar strap off her shoulder. Mike put a hand around hers.

"Hold it, Shug."

She watched him, just waiting for him to fuss at her yet again. He was having a hard time meeting her eyes. That expression was beyond cold. Did he really give that look to people? It was unnerving how much of himself he could still see in that girl, in spite of the differences.

"I told you I'd put it back," Shug grumbled. "What more do y'want?" She pouted. "Unless you'd like t'remind me of who I'm _not_ again."

"No no, that ain't it at all," Mike quickly defended. He fussed with his hair, as if that would coax the words out of his brain. "Sugar, I've been a fool…an' I've treated you pretty rotten."

The girl straightened in her seat, then fell back against it, eyes wide with surprise. "But I—"

"Naw, lemme finish," Mike persisted. "I've been selfish an' bullheaded and it ain't right. We spent a month scared out of our minds that somethin' would go wrong. Then it didn't and it did…and I've been takin' it out on you." He clasped both his hands around hers, which still held tightly to a guitar pick. "I'm sorry, Shug."

Sugar's face felt as though it was on fire, creeping up from her neck, through her cheeks and up to her eyes. Then the tears came. She began furiously scrubbing at her face with her free hand, trying to will them to end. God, she hated these new hormones. They were confusing and way too impulsive.

Mike stopped her. "It's okay. I won't tell anyone." He gave her a heartfelt grin. He hated admitting his own eyes were feeling a little weepy.

"You better not," Shug sniffed into her sleeve. "Or I'll punch ya right square in th' nose."

"You've already tried that once," Mike said with a laugh. "Almost got me, too."

The girl leaned over, propping her head on top of her brother's. "Maybe I just didn't try hard enough."

They sat quietly for a while, the only sounds audible being the old fridge's compressor struggling to work and the beach house creaking slightly in the wind.

"Mike, who am I? I mean, really."

The lanky boy let go a sigh. "On the outside, you're my baby sister, Sugar. On the inside, you're still very much Mike Nesmith from what I can tell." He heard her groan rather miserably. "You stop that. So we've gotta share memories. It's okay. We'll figure it out."

"My best friend's in love with me," Sugar lamented. "It's th' weirdest feelin' in the world."

Mike couldn't help chuckling. "Believe me, I know. But whatever happens, Pete's gonna be there for us. That's just his way." He playfully nudged her with his elbow. "Don't think I didn't see you kissin' him back the other day." Incensed, Shug pushed him hard enough that he fell off the ottoman. Mike was nothing more than a heap of laughter on the living room rug.

"It was an accident! I'm still…adjustin'." She ignored the flushed sensation in her cheeks and quickly turned her attention back to the guitar.

Still giggling, Mike picked himself up from the floor and went to the bandstand, bringing back his worn acoustic guitar. He got comfortable on the ottoman once more. He nodded at Shug. "You wanna try that song again?"

Sugar looked ashamed. "Is that alright? I did sorta…pull it outta your head. Ours? I don't even know anymore."

Mike patted her knee. "It's fine, Shug." He placed his fingers on the strings of the acoustic and nodded. "At least you've been practicin', even if it's been without th' rest of us. I think you'll be ready for th' next gig."

The girl's head snapped up. "Gig? What gig?"

"Everybody's been askin' about you," Mike said, plucking out a little melody on his guitar. "An' we do kinda like havin' you around, whether you wanna believe it or not. How 'bout it?"

Shug considered the idea, playing with the group again. Before, she was a "fill-in" for Mike during his somewhat imaginary absence. With him back and her appearing out of nowhere, she would be an extra member. They were supposed to be a quartet, weren't they?

Maybe it was what she needed. Baby steps toward identity and purpose.

She gave a wry grin. "Start playin', you slacker."

"I'll take that as a yes."

* * *

The boys' next show came a lot quicker than Sugar was expecting. There had been maybe one official rehearsal. Their other attempts had been successfully interrupted by the likes of the landlord, an encyclopedia salesman and one very lost singing telegram.

"He certainly did put his heart into it," Peter commented.

Their arrival at Pop's Restaurant was the usual organized chaos. Remembering the protests from the old proprietor, Shug only carried the more lightweight equipment, namely cords and Davy's case full of percussion instruments. After Pop had made his rounds to welcome them, Shug made sure he wasn't looking before she began hauling amplifiers into place.

"Still stubborn about that, huh?" Mike snickered. He caught himself mirroring his twin's setup ritual on the opposite side of the stage.

"No sense bein' totally useless," Sugar said with a firm nod. "So I'm a girl. Don't mean my arms are broken."

Micky looked up from his drum assembly efforts, smiling. "I've gotta admit, I like her spunk."

"Well, she does take after her big brother," Mike gloated. He was quickly pelted in the back of the head with a rubber band. He peered over his shoulder to see Shug grinning wickedly, another band wrapped around her finger and ready for firing. "'Course, there's a chance that there's some Cousin Clara in her, too." Mike felt a band snap against his rear end and yelped, half-laughing. "Now cut that out!"

The show went off without a hitch and Shug was welcomed back by the audience. It felt strange to stand on stage and play _beside_ herself or at least who she used to be. Once the initial shock wore off, she found herself able to loosen up and enjoy herself, lost in the music. She traded between acoustic and bass guitars, giving Peter the rare chance to actually commit to the organ for some songs. When she handed Peter's bass back to him after "Steppin' Stone", she was sure she saw him hug it.

Shug leaned into Davy's ear. "Is that somethin' new he's picked up?"

Davy giggled. "The goddess has touched one of his most treasured belongings, thus making it a sacred object."

Sugar gaped at him a moment, then it hit her. "Oh… Oh, no. He can't have it _that_ bad, can he?"

The little Englishman remained amused. "Do please carry on. It's quite cute, really."

Mike caught the exchange and merely rolled his eyes. "If he keeps moonin' like that, I'm'onna start carryin' a water pistol to cool him off." Peter quickly donned his guitar and stood at attention, fully embarrassed.

The band paused for the usual round of announcements, which were still being handled by Davy. Sugar was certain Mike would have taken back that duty, but she had missed quite a few shows since the new normal had been initiated. She propped herself against the front of Micky's drum riser, letting her brain process what had happened so far. _Was_ it actually happening?

A loud "THUMP" from the bass drum brought Shug out of her reverie. She bolted upright and yelped, eliciting a few laughs from the audience. She took a deep breath and made an attempt to compose herself. It was an effort made in vain, as only a moment later, Micky was stretched as far as he could over his drums, tapping Sugar on the head with a drumstick. As she looked back at him, he flashed that broad, disarming smile of his.

"Micky, my sister is not a new drum," Mike said as he calmly took Shug's wrist and led her away from the riser to the front of the stage. "You will not practice rolls on her head." Micky shrugged, still grinning.

Mike took off his twelve-string and held it to the side. He motioned at the acoustic guitar that Shug had around her shoulder. "Give it here," he said. "We're gonna trade."

Sugar raised an eyebrow at him. "You sure? That's Blondie we're talkin' about."

"You're th' only other person I'll ever trust with her." Mike handed the Gretsch to his twin, taking the beaten six-string. "Besides, you're already acquainted," he said with a wink.

"Wait, why are we tradin'?"

"You're on lead duty, baby sister." He clapped her on the shoulder. "Have at it!"

Sugar suddenly found herself in front of her brother's mic stand, looking back at her other three bandmates and her twin, who was positioned just within arm's reach.

Mike gave her a nod. Shug let go the breath she didn't realize she was holding. She ran her hands along the curve at the top of the guitar, almost praying for divine intervention via Blondie. She looked up, noticing that the boys were waiting for _her_. When Mike said "lead duty", he meant more than just playing guitar.

Shug gave Mike a light punch in the arm. "Maybe you're not such a jerk after all."

* * *

After the show, several restaurant patrons congratulated the group on another great performance. The tips weren't too terrible, either.

One man in particular singled out the twins. He approached them, notepad in hand. He pointed his pen at Mike, then at Sugar. "Arthur Blankenship—Evening Star, Page Six."

Mike quirked an eyebrow and responded in kind. "Mike Nesmith, lead guitar and vocals."

"Sugar Nesmith, rhythm guitar, bass and vocals."

The reporter tilted his head, baffled at the pair. "You know, I honestly didn't believe you were two different people. Never saw you both in the same place at the same time!"

Mike furrowed his brow. He saw Shug stiffen. He threw an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. He fixed his eyes on the reporter. "In case you hadn't noticed, I was outta town an' Shug here filled in for me while I was gone. When you've got prior obligations, it ain't exactly a cakewalk to be in two places at once."

Blankenship nodded and scribbled onto his notepad. "That's a good point," he muttered. "Never really thought about it…"

"Maybe you oughta try thinkin' more often," Sugar said with a frown. She shrugged out from under Mike's arm and stormed off. She felt dizzy, unwell. She made a beeline for the restroom.

* * *

Micky found her hunched over the sink. "You alright, babe?"

Shug had splashed enough water on her face that her bangs were almost sopping wet. She grabbed a paper towel from the stack on the counter and dabbed at her face. "I'm good. Just needed a minute t'myself, that's all."

"You did great tonight," Micky encouraged. He leaned against the countertop, arms crossed. "Just like old times, right?" Shug glared at him. "Okay, maybe not so old times… What's buggin' ya, Texas?"

The girl sighed, staring into the mirror over the sink. She adjusted one of her barrettes, re-clipping her bangs out of her eyes. "It's weird t'play beside yourself. It's like your mirror image has got a mind of its own." Her expression fell. "Of course, it's not quite th' same anymore."

The drummer swatted her in the shoulder. "And maybe that's what makes it so cool, huh?" He was grinning from ear to ear. "We've got twice the talent now!"

"And three times th' temper," Shug sighed. "We just got over black eyes an' what do I do? Try t'give him another one." She glanced at her hands, flexing her fingers. It was hard for her to believe that those dainty little things could cause such damage.

Micky edged closer to the girl. "If you want my opinion—"

"Didn't ask fer it, Mick."

"Well, you're gettin' it anyway, Sugar," Micky persisted, rather amused. "I think he might be a little jealous."

The girl's head snapped to the side. She gaped at Micky, slack-jawed. "Say what?" She shook her head in fierce disagreement. "Ain't no way he's jealous of this."

"It must be so tough, being the pretty one," Micky fawned, batting his eyes. Sugar simply shoved him, nearly knocking him over. She was smiling, though. That was important. "Feeling better?"

She shrugged. "Yeah, I guess. A little."

"That's good. 'Cause there's something else I need to tell you."

Sugar looked up, concerned. She was momentarily distracted by something behind her. When she turned around, she found herself face-to-face with an older man in a rumpled brown suit. He looked none too pleased.

Micky cautiously leaned into Sugar's ear. "This is the men's room, Shug."

The girl's eyes widened suddenly. She felt a wave of panic engulf her. All she could do was smile at the grimacing man in front of her. She nabbed a couple of paper towels from the counter and began patting at the stranger's hands. "You know how it is," she laughed nervously. "Th' bathrooms're so close together an' if you're not careful… Let's just dry those hands there, mister…" She dropped the towels, noting the man seemed to be turning a stunning shade of angry purple. "Well, uh, we thank you for your patronage an' all… Here's a lil' somethin' for th' road!" She quickly took some mints from the bowl near the sink and shoved them into the man's lapel pocket with his handkerchief. "SEEYABYE!" Shug seized Micky by the wrist and dragged him out the door.

When they were a safe distance away from the restrooms, Micky nearly collapsed in a laughing fit.

"What's so funny?" Shug was giggling herself. Around Micky, it could be infectious.

"Nothing," the brunet sputtered between guffaws. "You fit right in."

* * *

More notes: Slightly relevant? The song Shug plucked from her shared memories with Mike is "Nine Times Blue".

Mike really IS learning to share. He's a good guy, this just happens to be a very weird situation.

Sugar really did try to punch him in the face. Mike knows his own fighting style, though, and blocked her. (Chaos wrote it, I love it, I AM KEEPING IT CANON.)

Micky keeps close tabs on her (or tries to) because for one, he feels bad about this whole thing since he's the one who started this colossal mess and two, SCIENTIFIC OBSERVATION. (I'm keeping that canon too. It's too good not to.)

Shug's little moment in the bathroom with the paper towels? Totally Mike, just with 100% more hips and bosom. :P

BABY GIRL YOU IS IN THE BAND (I hope Peter can focus.)

*confetti cannon*

And now things can return to their normally abnormal state in my little Monkeeverse.


	17. EPILOGUE

Author's notes: I believe we are at an end now, folks. Just for this particular story, though. There's still plenty more trouble these kids can get into. AND I AM PLANNING FOR IT. Oh yes.

I felt the need for an "epilogue" to kinda tie things up with a nice pretty bow…at least for now. Super short.

* * *

Micky slid down the banister, making a near perfect ten-point landing on Davy as he passed through with an armload of laundry. "Oi, watch it!"

"Sorry, Davy." The drummer helped him to his feet and began piling clothing back into his arms. "I was trying to find Mike. You seen him lately?"

"Last I remember, he was outside," Davy replied, just as a couple of blue eight-button shirts were flopped unceremoniously on top of his head. "He might be a touch grumpy," the Englishman warned, "on account of Babbitt not fixin' 'alf the things he said he would."

Micky draped a pair of gray slacks over Davy's shoulders. "That's why we have Sundays. And that's why we argue to get our security deposit refunded." He patted him on the back, nearly knocking him over. "Thanks, man!"

Davy stood there a moment, blind to the world and rather unbalanced under the weight of at least half the boys' wardrobe. "Peter? Peter, are you still in here? I can't see anything!"

The bassist put down his broom and hurried to his smaller friend's aid. "Micky has a couple of drum cases. Next time, use those."

As Micky sauntered outside, he caught sight of a pair of gangly legs sticking out from under the Pontiac. Said legs were in gray, grease-stained coveralls; the clanging of small hand tools could be heard as they hit the pavement underneath the car. Micky nudged at a foot with his own. "Hey, Mike?" One leg folded up, sneaker sole flat against the driveway. "Listen… I'm really sorry about everything. It was a dumb idea for me to kinda…interfere with your mojo like I did." He paced back and forth alongside the car. "But that said, I'm kinda glad we ended up with Shug. So it's like a happy accident, right?" He paused to see if there was any reaction. There was none. He sighed. "I hope you're not…I dunno, mad about her or anything. She's a groovy girl and we all like her and we're all really glad you let her in the group." Micky snickered lowly. "Seems like it's her birthright, huh? She was born a Monkee!" He heard a few tinny clinks echo beneath the Monkeemobile as the mechanic's dolly slid into the daylight.

Shug sat up from the dolly, grinning through the grease marks on her face. "Thanks, Micky. That's mighty nice of ya."

It was all Micky could do to keep his eyes from popping out of his head. "But I thought—Davy said Mike was outside and he's the one who always tinkers with the car and you're in his clothes and—"

"I'm up here!" Mike waved from a ladder propped against the side of the garage. He nodded at Micky and thumbed over his shoulder. "I've got gutter duty, so Sugar offered to work on th' car. Fix that squeakin'." He raked a gloved hand through the muck and tossed it into a bag tied to the top of the ladder. "And like Baby Sister said, thanks. That really is pretty nice of ya."

Micky shook his head, curls bouncing every which way, as if that would jostle his jumbled thoughts right out through his ears. "This is still gonna take some getting used to." He noticed the look between the twins—Each wearing a half-smile that seemed eerily knowing and rather full of mischief. "I guess my payback is living with double Nesmiths, isn't it?"

Mike made his way down the ladder to the front patio, approaching his fuzzy-headed bandmate and his sister. He shoved his gloves in his back jeans pocket. "We'll try to take it easy on you," the lanky boy said with a smirk.

"Can't make any promises, though," Shug added. She adjusted her barrettes, again moving her bangs out of her eyes. Mike put his foot against the dolly and offered the girl a hand up. Sugar tapped Micky on the nose, leaving behind a perfect black fingerprint. "Remember," she cooed, "it's for science." She proudly marched toward the house.

As the front door closed, Micky slumped in defeat. "I think I need a new hobby."

Mike crossed his arms and propped a hip against the GTO. "Well… Not necessarily… Though I'd keep it to smaller, more harmless things. One of us with a twin around here is enough."

"I really _am_ sorry, Mike."

The Texan chuckled beneath his breath. "Y'know what? I ain't even bothered."

"What?!" Micky sputtered and waved his arms frantically. "Are you kidding? After the hell I put you through, you say, 'aww haaay ah ain't eevun bothurred'?!" He tapped at Mike's head with both hands. "You sure I didn't end up putting some of that good sense of yours in Sugar's gourd?"

Mike clasped a hand around Micky's fingers, forcing them out of his personal space. "Don't do that."

"Well?"

"Things happen for a reason, Micky." He gave the boy a firm pat on the back, then retreated to the house. It was far past time for a break anyway.

* * *

Thanks to my friends for the endlessly wonderful input on this story and the inspiration for the next…and for putting up with my text and sketch vomit of all things Neztwins. I LOVE YOU GUYS. Thank you for tolerating me.

Onto the next story, right? RIGHT.


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